Perfection of Suffering (The Shadows of Wildberry Lane Book 1)

by M. Sinclair

  “Shh,” I urged before speaking quietly. “Where are you going? Can I come with you? Please?” I needed to get out of here. He stood in the land between our properties, looking over my expression with confusion and interest.

  “Going to a fight tonight,” he grunted, looking annoyed about it.

  “Can I come with you? Please, Stratton?” I was at the point of begging.

  His eyes darkened as he shook his head. “Nah, angel face, you need to stay away from that shit.”

  I let out a small growl under my breath as he walked towards his bike, not saying anything else. My wishes met with a simple no. Jerk. Turning back into my room, I crossed to peek out the front window, happy to see Yates walking back to his house. Good.

  With a groan, I ripped off my headband, running my fingers through my hair before falling back on my bed. What the heck was I going to do tonight?

  Staying in my room was not an option.

  Chapter Seven

  Sterling Gates

  “What is the difference between periwinkle and lavender?” King muttered in confusion next to me, my lips pulling up into an amused smirk. I went to go answer him, but Dermot chuckled from the armchair to my right.

  “Why the bloody hell would we know that?” Dermot tipped back his beer as I took another sip of my own, wondering if I should put King out of his misery. Honestly, I sort of wanted to see him ask Dahlia so she would have to explain it.

  “I think one is more blue and one is more purple?” my twin mused, offering me a look.

  Instead of offering my opinion, I continued to relax back into the large leather couch that Dermot had placed in his family room. I mean, it probably wouldn’t stay once the interior designer got hold of this place, but personally, I was a huge fan. Maybe we could move it into the basement…

  “Where is Dahlia?” I asked curiously, looking down at my Rolex, realizing that it was already twenty minutes until midnight. Anxiety crept in as I sent a prayer up that everything had gone okay at dinner—that Yates hadn’t somehow fucked up the delicate line that we were walking to ensure we didn’t push her away.

  “I was wondering that as well,” my twin mumbled, letting out a small yawn.

  I didn’t blame him, I was about to pass out myself. Exhaustion crowded my mind as I let out a small grunt, stretching my arms above my head, my muscles exhausted from rugby practice. I was almost positive that I’d have bruises on my ribs in the morning, and my lip was for sure slightly swollen from getting hit in the face by Ben. Neither of those bothered me all that much, though. Injuries came with the sport. What did bother me? That I may not be able to stay up until we heard from Dahlia.

  My eyes were growing heavy, and I was trying my best to shake it. If I could just hold her, I would feel much better. I usually didn’t go very long without touching her—I did at least once a day—so I felt like I was going through some withdrawal. It was messing with my head. I was being a bit dramatic, but considering how tired I was, you couldn’t fully blame me.

  Currently, the four of us were sprawled out between two large leather couches and an armchair. The television, hanging above the fireplace, flickered light across the dark hardwood floors as the Premier League soccer game played in the background. Both Dermot and Lincoln were far more invested than King and I, but I wouldn’t say no to a comfortable couch and beer. King worked on his laptop next to me, and I honestly applauded him for doing something productive at this hour.

  Although, whether it was productive or obsessive was a fine line.

  My gaze traveled over his laptop screen as I shook my head, realizing that he had the blueprints up of his recent real estate acquisition. Something that he had only decided to fill us in on today, because like most things with King, he made decisions on the fly and didn’t ever pause to ask others. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t disagree with the choice, but I hoped that it was the right time to push forward with his plan. We couldn’t afford to fuck up the timing on this.

  On the side of his screen, I recognized a familiar document that we’d been compiling all summer. It was based on shit Dahlia had mentioned throughout the years and observations we’d made ourselves. I was really glad there were so many of us, because this shit was overwhelming to figure out, and I was hoping the interior designer would help sort all of that out. King hadn’t been lying about the interior designer that he’d hired for ‘Dermot’s’ place, but what the bastard had failed to mention was why.

  I suspected she would find out all too soon.

  Dahlia’s likes and dislikes had changed a ton through the years, from wanting a treehouse with a trampoline underneath it when we were eight to wanting a pool with a cabana out back, so something told me that this entire process was going to take way more work than King was accounting for. Too bad the fucker had zero patience. I wasn’t much better, but out of my brother, King, and Yates, I was probably the only one that would be able to convince them to slow down to make sure we didn’t screw this up.

  I was positive Dahlia would have some amazing input, though, and worst case, Yates could always hack into her Pinterest boards to make sure we weren’t completely off base. Honestly, I hadn’t even considered how helpful the app could be until this past summer when I’d been out back at her pool, scrolling through her tablet. When she’d dozed off, I’d been a total creep and gone through everything on there, from wedding shit to nursery decorating ideas. The house shit also, but that had been less of my focus at the time.

  I had some serious problems.

  But I also knew what she liked. To be fair, I had been trying to distract myself from looking at her pert ass in that damn bikini, so it was probably the safer option.

  “You don’t think she is going to see through all this?” I lazily asked King.

  “I hope she does.” King chuckled and then sighed. “I just want her to love this house more than anywhere else. She loves her home now, so that’s going to be difficult. But if she does… then she won’t leave it. Ever.”

  Healthy mindset there, King.

  “We can’t keep her in the house forever,” I pointed out. Probably.

  “Eh,” King shrugged and grabbed his beer. “I mean, if she loves it enough.”

  I didn’t completely blame him for that train of thought—the idea of her safe within Wildberry’s gates forever was tempting. I mean, shit, I knew what was out there, and it didn’t matter how wealthy our small town was—people fucking sucked. They were cruel, cold, and filled with greed and bloodlust. Dahlia didn’t need to experience any of that.

  At the same time, I had the urge to walk around town with her, my hand wrapped around her waist while making it clear who she belonged to. As if people didn’t already know.

  Letting out a yawn, I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to calculate how I was going to get enough sleep between the golf tournament this weekend and the rugby match this Sunday. This was my fault, so I had no right to bitch. I knew I had pushed myself unreasonably hard today at practice, but I’d been frustrated as fuck after seeing Dahlia this morning, looking like a goddamn angel.

  A small groan broke from my throat, thinking about how she had looked on her front porch drinking coffee in just a silk robe while scrolling through her laptop. She hadn’t even been trying to be sexy, and all I’d wanted to do was strip that silk material off her, bend her over that porch railing, and go to fucking town…

  Nope. I couldn’t go there, not when I was this tired. I wasn’t thinking right.

  I kept assuming I would get used to the frustration, and instead it only became worse. At least seeing her at the match on Sunday would give me some level of satisfaction, knowing that she would wear one of our jerseys. That her cute ass would be plastered with our last name. I loved that far too much for it to be normal.

  “You look like you’re about to pass out,” King pointed out.

  “Fuck, dude, I am,” I grunted.

  I would be fine, though. I just needed to get my second wind. I wouldn’t tr
ade it for the world, as it was. I’d been thrilled when we had not only been contacted by but made it onto the semi-professional rugby team that practiced in this area. It had only been this past spring, but Lincoln and I hadn’t planned on leaving the area to begin with, so when the opportunity had fallen in our laps, we had snatched it up.

  I just hadn’t accounted for how goddamn tired I’d be every night.

  My brother and I could have worked at Gates Unity. Hell, that had been the tentative plan at first. It was the largest nonprofit charity in the country, but that meant I would have to wear a goddamn suit all day long, and while my mom and dad seemed to not mind it, it was not for me. That was far more King’s or Yates’s type of thing.

  Maybe after a year or two I would. Although frankly, Linc and I were still hoping to go pro for rugby… but whether that would happen or not was completely up in the air. I frowned, wondering how much of a move that would require. I wasn’t opposed to traveling, but moving completely? Especially overseas? Didn’t sound like something Dahlia would enjoy, and that was enough to dissuade me.

  We didn’t need the money, and we didn’t need the fame that came with professional sports, so as much as I loved rugby, I loved Dahlia far more.

  Shifting my legs so that they were stretched out further in front of me, I narrowed my eyes slightly at what I was wearing. I’d been so fucking eager to see Dahlia after practice that I’d barely paid attention to what I’d put on. Lincoln always said I dressed like a slob, but Dahlia said she liked my paint-covered clothes, so that was good enough for me. Plus, the way she looked at me led me to believe that she was telling the truth. Then again, her word was essentially scripture in my mind, and that wasn’t changing any time soon. It had been that way since we were little and playing together in our backyard.

  In fact, our entire group dynamic, in some ways, hadn’t altered very much over time. She and King would always decide what we were playing, while my brother and I would follow her around like fucking puppies. Yates would end up complaining about something, and Stratton would act like he wasn’t having any fun, despite complaining at the end of the night about going home.

  It was a simple dynamic that I’d grown familiar with. However, unlike when we were little, I was now well aware that I was in love with Dahlia. Obsessively so. But I wasn’t the only one, which was clear to everyone but her. Not that I blamed her for not realizing it, because despite our actions, we’d never mentioned a word to her about dating. Mostly because what was going on between all of us was so much more complicated than dating.

  It was the long game.

  Running a hand over my face, I tried to not let my mind stray into the fantasies that came to fucking life every time I closed my eyes. I didn’t even need to actively think about her for her image to appear in my consciousness. Thoughts of her tied up to my bed. Thoughts of her on her knees in front of me, staring up at me with those massive green eyes. Or thoughts of riding her hard enough that she was screaming my name loud enough that everyone in this god-forsaken town would hear.

  King’s phone rang and pulled me out of my thoughts. He sat up and answered immediately, his face darkening with frustration before he nodded, offering us a look. When he finally hung up, I realized Dermot had paused the game as we all waited for him to say some shit.

  “We have to meet with them tomorrow,” King announced, standing up and walking towards the kitchen to grab another beer, most likely.

  “The tournament events start tomorrow,” Lincoln pointed out. “If we don’t show, people will know.”

  “Dahlia isn’t going alone,” I added. I knew exactly who would fucking be there because they showed up every goddamn year, and every year I considered finding a way to make sure that they were banned. Call me crazy, but it seemed like a lot of fucking work to come overseas for a charity golf tournament. Especially since they didn’t give a fuck about the sport, and they most certainly didn’t give a fuck about the charity.

  My brother let out a low, frustrated sound as King walked back in the room, his eyes dark. “He fucked up last year. He won’t do it again.”

  “Who?” Dermot asked curiously.

  “Ian and George McCaffrey,” I muttered, hating their names.

  Dermot made a dark annoyed noise, which means that he had somehow either heard of them or met them and didn’t like them, no doubt. Very few did. That wasn’t the part I gave a fuck about. The part I cared about was who they liked, and that happened to include Dahlia.

  “Last year he landed himself a broken jaw,” King said evenly. “If that wasn’t enough to dissuade Ian, then he knows exactly where his fate lies.”

  I smirked at that, because he wasn’t wrong.

  “So what time tomorrow?” I changed the topic, not wanting my brother or him to get on a tangent. We needed to go into the weekend with a cool head, or else everything would fall apart pretty quickly.

  “Around noon,” King sighed. “Apparently they have intel that can’t wait. I’ll have them meet us at the club, though. We can use one of the conference rooms. I have a feeling they were planning to come to the tournament anyway.”

  I honestly wasn’t surprised that they wanted to meet up—it had been a bit of time since our last meeting.

  There weren’t many things that we kept from Dahlia. This, though, we’d kept completely tight-lipped about. There was no reason for her to get involved in something so completely fucked up. Plus, I wasn’t positive how she would react to knowing just how many issues this town had and how fucked up our families really were. Dahlia lived in a very carefully constructed and protective bubble.

  One that I didn’t plan on popping any time soon. Why would I? She was happy and deserved to be every single day.

  I was also positive that the FBI would be fucking pissed if we told anyone that they hadn’t preapproved. King’s father was aware of what was going on, and I was almost damn positive that my dad knew as well, but he had purposefully stayed clear of it, just in case. He, Mr. Aldridge, and Mr. Carter tended to be the legal wall that existed to protect the Ross’s criminal enterprise that his family had established long ago. As a result, they had to keep their names fairly clear and be able to claim a lack of knowledge in almost anything like that.

  I didn’t buy that they didn’t actually know what was going on, though.

  Plus, Kingston wasn’t nearly as careful about keeping his name clear, and neither were we. Well, maybe ‘careful’ was not the right word. We just didn’t give a fuck. Our families were far too established to actually be threatened by the American system of government. It was why the FBI had decided it would be better to work with us and form a relationship with the faces that would be taking over the businesses that our fathers had worked so hard to build in the last three decades. By all regards, we were trust fund kids and didn’t need to work a day in our life, and it was true I didn’t want to work in an office. I would much rather devote my time to building our future with Dahlia, and if ensuring she was always safe came hand in hand with dangerous and illegal shit, I didn’t care in the least.

  In the past two years, Kingston and Lincoln had made a point of compiling an entire dossier of everyone in Camellia, the affluent town outside of Wildberry Lane. It was common knowledge that we had enough shit to sink anyone we wanted to, and I was glad that King’s father had suggested doing so early on, because two years later, we had everything, and the FBI was well aware of that.

  There was information in there that no one would give up willingly, and it scared the hell out of people, which served our purposes really goddamn well. Dahlia always teased us about everyone being scared of us, as if it wasn’t purposeful. As if all of this wasn’t extremely intentional and premeditated. Our fathers had done it to protect our families, and now we were doing it to protect our future family. It was that fucking simple.

  Plus, it made changing shit really easy. You know, for example, when there weren’t technically enough people enrolled for a photography class at Silver Oak
, but the Dean of Arts decided to push it through anyway. After all, he wouldn’t want his family finding out about his weekly motel meet-ups with his young assistant.

  Convenient, right?

  The people who lived in this town were fucked up. Something that was only further impressed upon me when the FBI contacted us about a drug ring that may have been infiltrating our community. I’d been confused on why it had been a big enough deal for the FBI to be part of… until I realized just how large of an impact it was making on the pharmaceutical industry. Apparently they didn’t care about your opioid addiction until it affected the wallets of the powerful when you turned to alternate sources. Bastards.

  Nevertheless, I didn’t like the idea of drug dealers in our town, no matter how ‘high end’ they appeared. Pill popping was a problem in our country, and it didn’t surprise me that it had made its way here. Money didn’t make addiction go away, it just made it invisible.

  When we made the decision to work with them, we had assumed it would be as easy as giving them the names of the people we most suspected to be purchasing from the group they were looking into. We’d assumed that was where it would have stopped.

  It did not.

  No, this entire scenario was becoming far larger than we could have imagined. We had assumed that it was going to be some local dealer that was selling them, but when they followed the chain that began to make itself apparent, they began to suspect that this opioid drug ring was connected to someone they had been trying to catch for years.

  Dixon Glenn.

  I’d heard of the name before this situation, and I found myself a little concerned that someone like him would find his way into our town. I had no doubt we could handle him, but I was going to wait to see if the FBI could do it legally before our families had to actually get involved. I would much rather lend support than bring that much attention to ourselves. I mean, the bastard had escaped from federal prison and had yet to be found. It had been assumed he was overseas, but now they were thinking that wasn’t true, that their lead to him being in Tokyo was false.