by Smoke , Lucy
"No more," I tell her. "You're not spying on me for them anymore."
Rylie huffs and straightens out her now wrinkled shirt. "I don't have to," she says. "You live with them now."
"And the shower?" I remembered how fucked in the head I'd been after that fight. How the memory of Roger Murphy and my rage was so all-consuming, and somehow, she'd known. My gaze finds hers. How much had she known?
"What about it?" she asks sharply. One thing I'll say about her, she may have warned me away from the Sick Boys out of self-preservation, but despite her small stature, she's no cowering mouse.
"Why were you nice to me then?" I grit out the words, hating them. Hating that I question even the smallest hint of kindness from anyone now but especially from her.
She stares back at me. Her lips part. "God, Ava..." she breathes, "you are so fucking damaged, aren't you?"
Her words hit me like a fucking gunshot to the chest. She's right. I am damaged. Beyond repair. Yet, I'm still here. Still fighting. Because I don't know any other way. It’s either fight or lay down and die, and I’m not fucking ready to end it.
"Answer the fucking question," I hiss.
"No."
I blink. "No?" I repeat.
Rylie straightens her back and meets my glare. "No," she says. "You should know why I was 'nice' to you in the shower, Ava. Think about it. Take a fucking guess as to how a girl like me would know what a chick like you is feeling.”
The insinuation is clear. The only thing that could've made me act like that was … and if she knows, if she could tell, then … it’s because she’s felt it too. Instead of making me relate to her, however, it only makes me angrier. I deserve to feel angry for being betrayed. I deserve to want to punch her in the face and break her nose. I’m contemplating doing just that when Dean bangs a fist into the door, distracting me. "Avalon! Open the fucking door,” he yells through the wood.
Not yet, I think. I'm not done. I keep my hands to my sides as I step even closer, my chest brushing against Rylie's. Her eyes widen as her back presses into the door all on its own now. A sick feeling enters my gut. Whatever she says, I need to know something. I need to know because if she had anything to do with Roger Murphy and Plexton then I need to—God, I don't want to hurt her, but I can't let anyone get away with doing that.
I am not weak.
I fear nothing. I fear no one.
But Rylie Moore, she slipped past me. I fucking liked her—and I don't like anybody.
I think back to all of the signs—my eyes dart to the side, to the open computer sitting at her desk next to my old unmade bed. Who else does she spy on for them? I wonder. Then I shake my head. That's not important right now. What is important is finding out if Rylie's going to die here today or if I'm going to let her live.
My gaze returns to hers. "Do you know what happened in Plexton?" I ask the question slowly, my focus completely on her face. I want to know every nuance of her response. If her eye twitches. If her lips curl down or up. If her jaw hardens. I want to know every-fucking-thing. I want to see if she has a tell, and I want to see if she lies to me.
Rylie's lips turn down. "Plexton? What happened in Plexton?"
My breath catches in my throat, and I shove it out. "You tell me," I challenge.
She tips her head back, frowning up at me. She's so small—petite by society's standards—she almost looks like a porcelain doll. Something easily breakable, but I know that's not true. If she's survived like I did, then there's no way she's as fragile as she looks.
"Can't exactly do that," she replies. "If I have no idea what the hell you're talking about."
There it is. The denial. I focus so hard—fixate on her face—even as I hear the jangling of keys on the other side of the door and frustrated curses from the guys, but there's nothing in her expression that gives her away. I hope like hell she's telling the truth because I'm not sure if I've gotten soft. I'm not sure if she is or isn't. And I'm not sure if—when I step away from her, and the dorm room door opens, nearly clipping both of us in the sides as it bangs against the wall—I do it because I really don't want her to be lying to me.
Three sets of eyes flicker between the two of us. I know the guys are sizing us up—their gazes roving over Rylie's form as they try to determine whether or not I've done irreparable harm to her yet. I take another step back, snatching all of their attention as Rylie sinks against the door and continues to frown at me. She doesn't act like she's hiding a secret, but then again—she doesn't act like a contact that works for the Sick Boys either. I thought she was just what she said she was—a chick from the wrong side of the tracks trying to etch her way into a new life. Maybe she still is, or maybe she’s something else altogether.
Everything I thought I knew about her has changed. I don't know who the hell Rylie is anymore.
32
Avalon
“Rylie was actually recruited to Eastpoint after she hacked into her school’s network.” I listen to Dean’s words—I hear them and absorb them, but I don’t respond. “She got caught, though, and that put her on our radar.”
“I didn’t get caught,” Rylie snapped as she moved away from the closet door and towards her computer. She glanced back at me as she took a seat. “I got ratted out.”
“Regardless,” Dean continues, “she’s very computer savvy. We keep her outfitted with what she needs, and she gets us information when we ask.”
Abel steps into the dorm room and moves towards Rylie’s bed, flinging himself back on the covers and grinning at her when she turns her head and glares at him. Braxton, at least, hovers back, remaining by the door as I take a seat at the empty desk, and Dean leans against its side.
“What do you need to know?” Rylie asks, her fingers poised over the keyboard.
“We need you to hack into Nicholas Carter’s email address and see who he’s been in contact with. Once you’re in his email, I want you to download whatever files he’s received or sent in the last four months—”
“Better make it six,” Abel suggests. “They probably had their eye on her before they actually recruited her.”
“Fine,” Dean concedes before turning back to her. “We want the files he’s either received or sent in the last six months—anything that has to do with Avalon. Then I want you to—”
“Wait. Wait. Wait.” Rylie spins to the side and looks at us. “You want me to hack into Nicholas Carter’s email? The Nicholas Carter? Your father, Nicholas Carter?”
“Yes.” Dean arches a brow. “There a problem with that?”
“Yes, there’s a fucking problem with that,” she replies. Well, well, well, I think. Looks like her fear of the Sick Boys has suddenly changed. I eye her as she shakes her head. “That’s insane. He’s one of the wealthiest men in the world. His firewalls and cybersecurity have to be next level—a high school network? That ain’t shit. They talk a big game about confidentiality, but that’s all it is. Talk. This is something else entirely.”
“We’ll pay you five thousand dollars for the information,” Abel says as he lounges back against her pillows.
Her jaw drops, and I have to clench my teeth to keep mine from doing the same. Five thousand dollars was more than enough for someone like me to live on for months. And if I’m judging Rylie’s expression right—that’s exactly what she’s thinking too.
Her eyes dart from Abel to me and then to Dean. “How much danger does this put me in?” she demands. “Will you cover me if I get caught.”
“Don’t get caught,” Dean suggests.
Maybe it's my presence that has the two of them staring each other down for several seconds because I have the distinct feeling that were I not here, things would be very different. I watch Rylie's expression as it shifts, and finally, she glances my way before spinning in her seat and letting her fingers fly over the keyboard.
A hacker. Who would have thought she'd be that? I shake my head as I stare at the back of her head, with the dark roots of her real hair showing throug
h at her scalp. Just once, I wish that people were what they seem to be.
"Avalon?" Dean's hand moves along my arm, down until his fingers encircle my wrist, pulling it away as he unfolds my arms from across my chest. "Are you okay?"
"I'm pissed off," I warn him.
"But are you okay?" he insists.
I can feel the guys' eyes on us. If we're going to have this conversation. It's not going to be here. I look down and notice the keys dangling in his free hand. My hand twitches, and before my thought has completed itself, I snatch them away from him, turn, and head for the door. "We'll be back," I call over my shoulder, knowing he'll follow me.
There's no one out in the hall when I leave the room, and I can only hope the same is true for the space I have in mind. It's the only place I can think of that will afford us some privacy. I turn and head down the hallway until I come to the communal bathroom. Swinging the door inward, I peek inside and then rove through the shower stalls and then the toilets to make sure it's empty. Minutes later, I peek my head out into the hallway and gesture for him.
Dean grimaces, but steps into the cold, tiled room. I shut the door and flip the lock—which wouldn't actually work unless I had the keys. I search through the ring of keys, trying each one until I come upon the right one. Slipping it into the double-sided lock, I turn it and then leave it hanging there before pivoting back to face him.
For a long moment, that's it. We just stand across from each other, our gazes colliding. There's a whole lot of quiet and even more tension. "Tell me," I say.
He frowns. "Tell you what? About Rylie?" He steps forward, his hand lifting, reaching for me. I take a step back and shake my head.
"No," I say, "about your father."
The muscles in his shoulders stiffen, and his jaw hardens, and I know I've hit the nail on the head. I've called it. As much as I hate it, I feel the corner of my lips curl upward. It was easy enough to guess. People as fucked up as Dean and I—and there's no doubt that that is what we are—it all stems from one imperceptible place.
Some people believe evil is born not created. They're wrong. No one is ever born truly evil. People are from nature, and nature is neither good nor evil. It's neutral. It's only through our environment that we are molded into the creatures we become. And Dean and I, we were molded into monsters.
We may have been brought up in completely opposite scenarios—him with silver spoons and golden thrones, me with moldy carpet and greasy hands—but the fact remains; it was them, our parents, who made us what we are. I hate my mother for what she did, for who she is. Her weakness. Her addictions. Her dead soul and barely surviving body.
Dean blows out a breath. "I don't want to talk about this right now," he says before swinging a hand wide to the cracked bathroom sinks and the hard-plastic doors leading into the showers. "And I certainly don't want to do it here."
"Too bad," I reply, "because here is where it's happening." It seems fitting, too. Where shit gets flushed, and it's time for him to get it out of his system.
"Ava..." Dean reaches up, shoving a hand through his hair before scrubbing it down his face. "This is really not the time—"
"Cut the fucking bullshit, Dean," I snap, interrupting whatever excuse he's trying to come up with. "I don't trust Nicholas Carter, but you—Dean, you immediately thought he had something to do with what happened in Plexton. Do you know how fucked up that sounds? That you immediately blamed him? Why would you do that unless you have reason to believe that? Then—all that shit you and Brax and Abel were spouting about arranged marriages and business deals—" I cut myself off, turning away in frustration.
Anger wells up within me, but there's nothing for me to do to get it out. There are no cliffs to dive from. No fights to win. Just him and me. Alone in a shitty dorm bathroom. I turn back to him.
"You know everything about me," I say. "Things I wish you didn't. Things I wish no one knew. But you know, and you got me to give in to you. If this"—I gesture between the two of us—"is gonna fucking work, then you have to be just as fucking open with me as I've had to be with you. You had a file on me as soon as I stepped foot on Eastpoint, for fuck's sake. We've been dancing around this for months, and I'm..." Furious. Scared. Needy. I need him to be on my level. "Just tell me why you would think that?" I demand, finally. "You know why I hate my mother, so why do you hate your father?"
As if a dam bursts inside of him, Dean turns away from me and punches the door. "Because he's a fucking bastard," he snaps. He flips back around and advances towards me. This time, I don't take a step back. I don't fucking move. His nostrils flare as he marches up to me and stands, towering above me. My head tips back, and I meet his eyes. I'm not scared of him. "Because he took everything from me," he says.
Dean reaches down, fingers finding the hem of his t-shirt, and he rips it up and over his head, making me blink. His bare chest isn't an unattractive sight—with his ripped abdomen and the clench of muscles beneath his skin—but it is confusing. He drops his shirt there, on the dirty floor, and reaches for my hand. Taking it in his, he moves my fingers until they’re trailing along the swirl of designs on his upper arm and then down to his side, where the collection of thorny roses is etched against the lower half of his ribcage and further down.
"Do you feel it?" he asks.
Feel it? I think. Now, instead of his fingers guiding mine, I let my own trail over the tattoos, searching until I find just what he's talking about. Scars. I back up and look down, really look this time. I'd always assumed they were just the lines made from the tattoos—slightly raised from the skin, but upon closer inspection, that's not quite true.
My fingers raise back to his arm, where I find a few cuts—knife wounds and then a bullet hole—almost imperceptible, good plastic surgery, I suppose—beneath the roses.
"I am one big walking, talking, failure to him," Dean hisses. "I'm supposed to take over Eastpoint for him one day. Lead the fucking families and the business."
"This isn't about business," I say, trailing my fingernail along the outside of the old wound in his side. Most of my scars are on the inside—sure, I've got a few from fights, but Dean, he's been hiding his in plain sight. Everyone else sees a rich boy trying to look like a badass with all of the tattoos and the muscles and the angry set of his jaw. The reality is, he can't stand to see what his father has done to him or made him do, so he covers it up, and he's been covering it up for a long time.
I’ve got one tattoo. It’ll probably be the only one I’ll ever get. A small little thing, a memory, the only physical reminder of the only friend I’d ever had—Micki. Dean’s are larger—they cover more ground, more pain, more scars.
If anyone knows how dangerous covering shit up is, it's me. You bottle it up, shove it down, pretend it's not real until you can't anymore, and that shit comes shooting out, spraying all over the place like a fire hose. Except it's not water that's spraying everywhere—it's gasoline, and all it takes is one fucking match to light the fire.
"I killed my first man when I was sixteen," he admits, and in the cold silence of the bathroom, it sounds like he's screaming. The words echo around the room, and I only pray that the walls are strong enough to hold his secret.
I look up into his face and see that his eyes are on me, but he's not really looking, not really seeing me. Instead, he's somewhere far away.
"He always told me to be careful about who I trusted because men like us will inevitably fall if we don't keep our foundation strong," he continues. "It's a rite of passage, killing someone in our family. Braxton and Abel, they had their own, but they had to be there for mine too. We were there to witness our first sins. The sins we commit bind us together."
Blackmail, I realize. It was how they kept their families so close. How they ensured that no one would betray the others. My head sinks onto his naked chest, and I turn my cheek, blowing out a breath across his nipple until he jerks in surprise.
"Ava?" His hands cup my arms.
"We're going to find
out who's doing this," I tell him. "If it is Nicholas Carter or someone else. We're going to find them, and when we do…" I suck in a breath as I let my arms wrap around him, pulling myself towards him and holding my body against his, "we're going to make them regret everything," I promise.
33
Avalon
When Dean and I leave the bathroom and walk out into the hallway, it's to find both Abel and Braxton leaving my old dorm room. Abel lifts his head and stops when we approach. He gestures back to the door. "She said it'll be a few hours at least, if not a few days," he tells us.
Dean stares at the now closed door. "Do you think money will make a difference?" he asks. "I don't care how much she asks for, I want it done as fast as humanly possible." He reaches for the doorknob, but Braxton is the one to stop him.
"She's good," he says. "She said it'll just take that long to get through without getting caught—and you did tell her not to get caught. She's covering her ass. We should have the info soon."
"Great," I say. "I know exactly what to do in the meantime." All three sets of gazes land on me, and I smile. "We're going to pay someone a visit," I say. "We need to talk to Luc Kincaid."
Dean's eyes darken. "Absolutely fucking not."
"Fine." I shrug as if it makes no difference to me—mostly because it doesn’t. He can stay and throw his mantrum, and I’ll take care of business like I always have. Just because I want him with me doesn’t mean I need him with me. "You can stay here, and I'll go talk to him."
He grabs me around my waist when I move to step away from him and jerks me back. "You're not going anywhere fucking near Kincaid," he orders.
I pat his chest lightly. "It's so cute how you think you can order me around, D-man."
"Maybe she's right," Abel says. Dean's eyes jerk up, and he glares over the top of my head. "Be pissed all you want, man, but those rumors about him transferring here still haven't been confirmed. She's dealt with Kate, why not deal with that asshole too?"
