“I normally am. Today was just a weird day.” I eye the paintings on the wall. “Did Hunter paint all of these?”
Jax glances at me warily. “He told you he paints?”
I nod in confusion. “Was he lying?”
He shakes his head, his intense gaze fixed on me. “No. He just normally doesn’t tell total strangers he does.”
“Really? Because, to me, he seems like the kind of guy who tells everyone everything.”
The corners of Jax’s lips tip into a shadow of a smile. “Sometimes he does have a big mouth, but he never talks about personal stuff, whether it’s his or mine or Zay’s.”
Hmm… I wonder if he’d still be saying that if he knew what Hunter told me about Zay and the raven.
He comes to a stop in front of a closed door and adds, “Something you should take note of.”
“I’m not a gossiper.” I stop beside him, holding my clothes against my chest. “In fact, I’m a great secret keeper. Not that it matters since I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be in your group.”
He doesn’t react at all, simply staring at me. Either he’s the most unemotional person ever or he’s very … controlled I guess is the right word.
“If you don’t want to, that’s fine,” he finally says as he extends his hand toward the doorknob. “But you might want to hear what we have to say before you make this decision, because Honeyton isn’t just some small town. It has a darker, dangerous side to it.”
“Yeah, but I’m not part of that darker side.”
“But your uncle’s the sheriff.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Because his job is to keep an eye on that darker, dangerous side of town. Unless he lets it buy him off. But that still comes with risks.” He pushes open the door as my lips part with a ton of questions. “That’s all I’m going to say for now. I’ll explain more after you get dressed.” He backs away from me. “When you’re done, head in here.” He stops in front of a door three doors down, pushes it open, and then walks inside without saying anything else.
His ability to dismiss things is impressive. I almost envy him because of it. But I also don’t know much about him either. Maybe there’s a deeper reason for why he hardly reacts to anything.
Frowning, I turn back to the open door and tentatively step inside, a bit apprehensive about entering an unknown room. But relief instantly trickles through me.
It's just a bedroom. A stunning bedroom with deep violet walls, a black ceiling, and antique light fixtures. A fireplace is on the far back wall, along with a curtain covered window, and in the center of it all is a massive four-poster bed covered with a purple velvet blanket.
Shutting the door, I cross the room, set my clothes down on the bed, and then head over to the window to peer outside so I can try to figure out where the hell I am. As soon as I draw the curtain back, my jaw nearly smacks the black and white checkerboard floor.
“Holy mother of … Where the hell am I?" I gape at what I'm assuming is Honeyton glimmering in the distance below the hill that this house is perched on like some freakin' royal castle. Hills roll in the distance, and the sun has set, the midnight blue sky sparkling with silver stars and moonlight.
Shaking my head, I let the curtain go then return to the bed to get dressed.
Once I get my shorts, shirt, tights, and shoes on, I move to put on my jacket, but something doesn’t seem right. I lift the leather fabric up to my nose and breathe in. Then tears burn my eyes. It doesn’t smell like my mom’s perfume anymore, but like freshly fallen rain.
A tear slips from my eye as another piece of her is ripped away from me. But I hastily swipe it away and suck the tears back.
I don’t deserve to cry.
Not about this.
Blood on my hands.
My parents’ lifeless bodies in front of me on the floor.
I can’t remember how I got here. Can’t remember anything after my mom told me to hide. The police officer, though, staring at me right now, has a horrified look on his face, like he knows exactly what happened. Then he grabs me and jerks me toward him—
I blink, slightly gasping as the memory fades. I hate when I have random flashbacks. Hate that I can never put all the pieces together. Although, deep down, part of me fears what will happen—what I’ll see—if I ever remember everything. The police had their speculations. I’d been known to have a temper, just like my dad. And with the blood on my hands … it looked suspicious. There were also a couple of witnesses who said they saw me fighting with my parents earlier that day out in the front yard, something I don’t remember at all. Weirdly, though, those witnesses went off the radar, leaving the police with hardly any evidence against me, other than how they found me that day. But my lawyer argued that I could’ve easily just found my parents, that I panicked and tried to resuscitate them, and that’s why I had blood on my hands. That my hands didn’t put the knife wounds in their bodies.
I wish I believed him, but sometimes …
“I hate you!” I scream at my dad, a potent rage burning inside me. “I wish you’d just go away!”
Blood on my hands.
Freak.
Loser.
Murderer.
Swallowing hard, I lift the hem of my shirt and peer down at the scars marking my flesh.
Freak.
Loser.
Unwanted.
Ugly.
Tainted.
Murderer.
My uncle carved them into my flesh the very first day I pissed him off. He held me down and told me this is what my parents felt like when I carved them up. I didn’t shed a single tear. I took my punishment. I fucking hate my uncle.
Tugging down the hem of the shirt, I slip on the leather jacket then adjust my leather bands to make absolutely certain those scars are hidden. The guys have seen too much of my ugliness already. Then I walk over to an oval mirror hanging on the wall and glance at my reflection.
I look like shit; pallid with dark circles under my eyes and my hair a wavy mess. But it is what it is.
I exit the room to go find out what in the world is up with these guys. And what the hell sort of town this is that I just moved to.
Raven
The room Jax told me to go to looks a lot like the room with a pool table. The main difference is a set of drums and a couple of guitars are perched in the corner, along with some sound equipment.
When I enter, Jax is over at a bar area, pouring himself a glass of what looks like whiskey, and Hunter and Zay are sitting on the couch, drinking whiskey and chatting about something. They don’t notice me come in, which I find kind of funny.
“You guys in a band or something?” I ask loudly, mostly to try to startle them. I do, too.
Zay nearly jumps out of his skin, and Hunter spins around on the sofa. Jax, though, doesn’t even so much as blink in my direction, capping the whiskey bottle then returning it to a shelf.
Yeah, that guy is seriously the most controlled person I’ve ever met, I decide right then and there. I wonder why. Just like I wonder why Zay is so moody and why Hunter is such a flirty manwhore.
Hunter quickly recovers from being startled and grins at me. “We are. Are you impressed?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I’m not really into modern day music.”
"You like classic rock, then?" Hunter muses with a thoughtful expression.
I nod. "Yeah, my dad was into…" I stop myself. Jesus, was I just about to talk about my dad with them? My dad who I killed. I don’t deserve to talk about him. “But anyway, yeah, I like classic rock.”
Hunter smiles. “I bet we could learn how to play a few songs for you.”
I just shrug, not wanting to let myself get caught up in this whole “friendship” thing with them. Not when I know it’s not going to last.
Looking away, I step further into the room, highly aware that all of them are watching me.
“It took you forever to get changed,” Hunter says in a teasing t
one, as if he’s trying to lighten my mood. “For a second, I thought I was going to have to come in and check on you to make sure you didn’t need any help getting dressed. Which, FYI, if you ever do need help getting dressed, I’m your guy.”
“I’m sure you are.” I inch farther into the room, my gaze skimming across the paintings on the walls … No, not paintings. Photos. Beautiful ones of places I’ve never been to, of lakes, of cities, of trees shedding their leaves. Of life. I wonder if Hunter took these? “So, whose house is this anyway?” I ask, tearing my attention off the photographs.
“Ours,” Hunter is the one to answer, lifting the brim of his glass to his lips.
“So, you all live here?” I ask, and he nods, lowering the glass. “Okay, but who technically owns the house?”
“Us.” Hunter slants forward, sets the glass down on a table in front of him, then pats the cushion between him and Zay. “Come sit down so we can talk. There’s some stuff you need to understand.”
I scratch the corner of my eye. “Can’t I just stand over here while we talk? I can hear just fine right now.”
“Yeah, but it’s so much more comfortable over here.” He pats the cushion and gives me a come-hither look.
I forcefully smash my lips together as laughter tickles my throat. “Yeah, but it’s so much closer to the door over here.”
Huffing out an exhale, Zay rises to his feet and strides across the room toward me.
As he nears me, I instinctively take a step back at the fire blazing in his eyes. I expect him to try to pick me up and sling me over his shoulder when he reaches me; however, he gently takes my hand.
“Just come sit down so we can get this over with,” he grumbles, leading me to the sofa then pulling me down with him as he plops onto the cushion.
Hunter slants forward to look around me and at Zay with a twinkle in his eyes. “You okay, man?”
Zay gives a nod. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Hunter elevates his brows then gives a pressing look at Zay’s and my interlocked fingers.
Zay immediately jerks back like I have cooties then scrubs his hand over his head, looking away and muttering, “Can we just get this over with? I have other shit to do tonight.”
And I guess we’re back to him being irritated then.
“You really are the moodiest person ever,” I remark, sinking back on the sofa.
Zay’s gaze cuts to me. “And you’re the most stubborn person ever.”
I shrug, crossing my legs. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“How about this?” He rotates on his seat and brings his knee onto the cushion while sliding his arm across the back of the sofa right behind me. “You, princess, have officially made your home in a town full of mobsters.”
“I already told you I’m not a princess …” I trail off as his words register and my eyes widen. “Wait. Mobsters?”
Zay’s lips kick up into a smirk, clearly pleased with catching me off guard. “Yep. The town is full of them. There are five main ones all crammed into this lovely, little place you now call home.”
“Well, I guess we’re just going to jump into this then,” Hunter mumbles from beside me.
Zay keeps his gaze welded with mine as he tells Hunter, “Might as well. It’s not going to be any easier if we try to ease her into this, like you suggested.”
“Not everyone is like you, Zay.” Hunter reaches for his drink. “Some people actually feel things other than disdain and anger.”
I want to remark on what he said, but my mind is still stuck on what Zay said.
“Mobsters?” I repeat. “Like real ones?”
“No, we’re talking about fake ones.” Zay’s tone seeps with sarcasm. “Of course we’re talking about real ones.”
I glance from him then to Hunter, who’s guzzling his drink like his life depends on it. Then my attention shifts over to Jax, who’s leaning against the bar, facing us, arms resting on the counter top. An empty glass is beside him, his gaze is on me, and his head is slightly angled to the side. He’s assessing me—that much I can tell—but his expression is so blank that I can’t tell much of anything else.
Blinking, I look back at Zay. “Are you messing with me? I mean, is this like … I don’t know. Is this like the bridge thing? I didn’t die, so you decided to screw with me?”
Zay slowly shakes his head, his gaze never wavering from mine. “Nope. And I already told you we never wanted you to die. That we didn’t even expect you to jump."
I’m still not sure I believe him. And I really don’t think I believe the whole mobster thing. I mean … “How is it possible for five main mobster groups to live in Honeyton? The population is, like, nothing.”
“Because a lot of population is part of a group.” Zay takes a sip of his drink. “About twenty-five percent of the town, actually.”
“Oh.” I sink back into the chair as I attempt to process this information. “When you say mobsters, do you mean like a bunch of powerful people that hang out? Or mobsters as in, we drop people into a lake with a brick tied to their feet mobsters?”
“Probably more the latter. Although, I’ve never personally dropped anyone into a lake with a brick tied to their feet.” Zay finishes the rest of his drink then sets the empty glass down on the table.
“No, you just threaten them into jumping into a river,” I joke but I’m still swirling in shock.
Mobsters? Mobsters live here?
Wait. Are they a part of one—
Zay’s nostrils flare as he leans forward, getting in my face. “You know what? I’m really starting to regret jumping in to save you.”
I roll my eyes then place my hand against his chest to push him back, a comeback tickling at my tongue. But the moment my hand comes into contact with his solid chest, I pause.
His heart is racing so fast. Like he’s freaked out of his damn mind. Or on some sort of drug.
Zay takes a shaky breath, his eyelids lowering.
“Little raven,” Hunter says cautiously, “pull your hand away.”
I start to do what he says, when Zay encloses his fingers around my wrist, stopping me. I tense as he then slips his finger underneath my leather bands and grazes the elevated scars. Then his eyelids lift open and he stares at me. He doesn’t react, which makes me wonder if he noticed the scars earlier, like maybe when he saved me. I wonder just how much he saw of them. If he put two and two together. Whatever he knows, I feel the need to defend myself, make up a story about where they came from, because I don’t want him to know about that ugly. The one I put on myself.
But, as my lips part, not a single sound leaves my mouth.
Zay takes a shaky inhale, skimming the pad of his thumb across the scars again. When he repeats the movement, my heart sputters inside my chest.
Touch. There it is again, the thing I had completely forgotten existed.
The warmth. That spark of connection.
But a warning rings in the back of my mind.
Pull away, Raven. Don’t let him read you anymore. Don’t let him see those scars, the ones no one knows about.
But despite my thoughts, I remain frozen, stuck in some sort of trance with my hand against his chest, his heart hammering inside.
Why does he seem so afraid?
What is he hiding?
“Zay.” Jax’s demanding voice slices through the intense moment. “Let her go.”
Zay stares at me for a beat then blinks, jerking away. “I wasn’t going to fucking hurt her,” he mutters then gets up and crosses the room to the bar to pour himself another drink.
A shaky breath eases from my lips. Holy intense.
Maybe one of the most intense moments of my life, which is saying a lot.
Maybe I should be worried about Zay and his intensity toward me. Hunter and Jax sure as hell seem to be. It makes me wonder what Zay has done. Has he hurt people? Is he part of a mobster group?
“Are you guys mobsters?” I dare ask, hugging the arm Zay had ahold of aga
inst my chest. Not because he hurt me. My scars just feel so … exposed right now, like a big, red letter A has been branded to my chest. Only it’s not an A, but a declaration of just how much I hate myself sometimes.
Just let go.
Give up, Raven.
When I realize no one has answered me, I glance at Hunter since he seems like my best bet in getting to the truth. “Are you?”
Rubbing his lips together, he wavers. “Sort of.”
“Okay.” That wasn’t really an answer. “What does that mean exactly?”
Hunter sighs, his lips parting.
“It means that we are for now,” Jax is the one to answer as he ambles over to the sofa across from where Hunter and I are sitting. He takes a seat and leans back, resting his arms on the armrest.
For some weird-ass reason, I can picture him sitting in a chair behind a desk, dressed in a suit, everyone referring to him as “The Boss.” But that stuff is all in the movies. This is real life.
“For now?” I say slowly. “So, eventually you won’t be?”
Jax shrugs, swishing around the ice in his drink. “Yep.”
Jesus, could he be more vague?
“How does one get out of the mafia, though? I thought it was like a leave and die sort of thing.” I give a short pause. “And can anyone join it? I mean, you guys are only eighteen … How long have you been part of it?”
Jax watches me from over the rim of his glass as he lifts the drink to his mouth and sips a gulp of whiskey. Every one of his movements is careful, calculated.
“All our lives,” he says as he lowers the glass.
“So, you were born into it?” I glance at the three of them. “All of you?”
Jax nods, placing the drink on the end table beside him. “My father is the leader of the Capperellies. We control the east side of Honeyton. Zay’s dad is my dad’s brother. Hunter’s dad was an outside member who was brought in, but he’s been part of it for longer than Hunter’s been born.” He leans forward and rests his arms on his knees. “So, yeah, we were born into this. It’s all we know. For now anyway.”
“Again, you say that like you’re gonna leave,” I say as Hunter slides his arm behind me.
The Raven Four: Books 1-2 Page 12
