Gypsy Brothers: The Complete Series

by Lili St. Germain

  He doesn’t say anything, the silence between us making me anxious.

  “What happened?” I croak, my throat full of rocks.

  “I told you, you should have left,” he says bitterly.

  He leans forward, and I relax as I see it’s Jase, not his father.

  “My brother’s dead and my dad’s about to start a gang war.”

  “What?”

  He unfolds himself from his chair, coming to beside the bed, where he towers over me. His eyes are haunted, his features pinched with stress and exhaustion. A fistful of guilt and self-loathing punches me in my stomach. He’s suffering because of me, another marionette in my quest for vengeance.

  “What the hell were you even doing snorting coke with Maxi and a couple of underage girls?” he asks.

  I don’t know how to answer that, so I just shrug. “I don’t know.”

  He appears unsatisfied with that answer, so I elaborate.

  “Your dad wanted your brother to have a birthday he’d never forget.”

  Jase snorts, clearly disgusted. He grabs his leather jacket from the back of the chair and shrugs into it, picking up a helmet from the floor.

  “Later,” he says, marching to the door.

  “Wait!” I say, struggling to sit up. “Aren’t I coming with you?”

  He turns slowly, the smirk on his face something that doesn’t belong on someone as gorgeous as him.

  “No.” he says. “You’re staying here. You almost fucking died. Again.”

  A chill runs through me as I think about almost dying six years ago, but I quickly realize he’s talking about Dornan stabbing me a mere week ago.

  “Oh,” I reply.

  He looks like he’s ready to explode, his neck muscles bulging, his hands balled into fists.

  “You know, I thought you were different,” he says, glaring at me. “But you’re just the fucking same as the rest of them.”

  Jase tosses something on the bed beside me. I peer down and realize it’s my phone.

  “Call me when they discharge you,” he says, without looking back.

  I open my mouth to speak but he’s gone, and I’m staring at a closed door.

  I lay back into the pillows, cursing myself for my stupidity. This wasn’t meant to happen. I almost died?

  I think for a few minutes, my head whirling.

  Maxi’s dead. Dornan’s on a rampage of some sort. Jase is pissed with me.

  That leaves one person.

  I scroll through the three contacts on my phone. Dornan. Jason. Tattoo Guy. Elliot answers on the third ring.

  “This had better be good,” he says groggily. “If you woke my daughter up, I’ll fucking kill you.”

  His daughter. Jesus. I was going to ask him to come get me, but I can’t exactly ask him to leave her in the middle of the night to come break me out of my hospital room.

  “Sorry,” I say quietly. “I was just…can I come see you?”

  He must detect that something’s not right in my voice, because the next time he speaks, he’s wide awake. “Sure,” he says. “Everything okay?”

  I glance down at my hospital gown and the IV line in my arm. “Peachy,” I reply. “I just miss you.”

  “Huh,” he says. “Of course you do.”

  I say goodbye and end the call.

  Ten minutes later, I’m walking down San Vicente Boulevard, wearing nothing but a hospital gown that ties at the back, and blows open when the breeze stirs, showing the world my ass cheeks. I’ve got no shoes on and nothing but my phone that I clutch in my hand. It’s three in the morning and the streets are pretty quiet, my only companions a random homeless woman pushing a trolley, and the gently rustling palm trees that line the street, towering over me.

  I’m aching inside, the utter desolation of my vengeful quest almost too much to bear.

  But I will bear it. Because I refuse to buckle. They will not break me.

  I’m a fighter, after all. And this fight’s only just begun.

  Rage and loneliness alight in my chest, I stick to the shadows, and make my way to Elliot’s apartment.

  God hath given you a face, and you make yourself another.

  - William Shakespeare, Hamlet

  I don’t know if it was God who gave me my face or my mother and father, but either way, it’s gone now.

  Sliced away, reshaped by a man with kind eyes and skilled hands.

  I did it so he would desire me, so he wouldn’t know who I really was.

  And now I have the face of a killer.

  ONE

  Here’s what I have learned from living with the devil:

  It’s not enough to simply do what he says. It’s not enough at all.

  To keep him distracted, you both have to believe the lie.

  TWO

  Someone asked me once if vengeance is ever justified.

  Of course it is. An eye for an eye.

  People might wonder why I’m doing this. If I’m trying to prevent anyone else from being hurt by the Ross family. If I’m simply a vigilante.

  The truth is, I’m doing it for me. I’m doing it because I like it. I’m doing it because the look on Maxi’s face, and Chad’s, when I killed them, was a balm to my soul. I’m doing it, because this is what they all deserve.

  Poisoned coke. Strychnine and cocaine.

  It was meant to be simple and straightforward. Kill Maxi, snort a little myself—just enough to make my nose bleed and my eyes look whacked out—and then go and find someone to “try and wake Maxi up.”

  Only, whatever I had ordered through my contacts was incredibly lethal, and I was lucky to be alive at all, according to the doctors.

  According to Jase.

  Maxi was dead—I already knew that—but what I hadn’t anticipated was waking up in the exact same hospital where I had almost died six years ago.

  It was like déjà vu. So of course, I blew that joint as soon as I could. Ripped the IV from my arm, a thin thread of blood down my wrist marking its sudden exit.

  Three a.m. in Venice, California, isn’t pretty. It’s dirty and violent and raw. Homeless people crammed into door fronts. A group of guys drinking and fighting in the street. A junkie in the gutter, fresh needle still hanging from her thigh, as she laughs maniacally. Pops of noise in the distance that could be gunshots or a car backfiring—but I’d put my money on the gunshots.

  I skirt around a pile of broken glass for what seems like the tenth time since I left the hospital. Normally this five-mile walk would only take me an hour or so, but I almost died a few hours ago. I’m tired as fuck and I feel like someone’s taken me and shaken hard, until all my teeth are loose and my brain is bruised.

  In short, I feel like shit. So it’s no wonder that the first words out of Elliot’s mouth echo that sentiment.

  I tap lightly on the front door of Lost City, Elliot’s tattoo studio, and almost fall into the shop as the door flies open. Elliot’s steel-blue eyes peer out at me, tinged with worry and lack of sleep. He’s barefoot, a thin brown dressing gown knotted loosely at his waist.

  “Hey, grandpa,” I say. “Nice robe.”

  “You look like shit,” he greets me. I scowl at him and enter the studio, the dark and quiet a welcome refuge from the streets outside.

  “Thanks,” I reply, my voice like gravel and dust.

  “Nice ass,” he adds. I glance down at the flimsy puke-green hospital gown that’s open at the back.

  “Here,” he says, taking his robe off and handing it to me, leaving himself wearing nothing but a pair of canary-yellow boxer shorts. Holy whoa. I stare at his tattooed chest, a place that was completely devoid of ink three years ago when he left me in Nebraska. There is so much happening that I don’t know where to look. A giant skull that takes up most of the middle of his chest; surrounded by images and quotes written in different languages. When he turns to lock the door, I see that his back is also covered, from shoulder to shoulder, with a giant old-school map of the world.

  He turns back to
me. “I can’t wait to hear about this,” he says, gesturing to my outfit, which is still visible underneath the open robe he’s draped over my shoulders. “Lose your panties at a masquerade ball? Or did a sexy biker melt them off you?”

  “Ha ha,” I reply dryly, my gaze travelling back up to meet his face. “Nice ink,” I say, impressed.

  “I’ve got your name on my schlong,” he says with mock seriousness, one hand going to the waist of his boxer shorts. “Wanna see?”

  I laugh. “Whatever, El. I think you’ve got it carved into your heart, more likely.” I’m trying to be funny but the humor is lost on Elliot, who flicks his gaze to the floor and purses his lips awkwardly.

  “Can I come upstairs?” I ask.

  Elliot shifts from foot to foot awkwardly, biting his lip. “Julz, it’s my weekend to have Kayla. I don’t know if that’s a good—”

  A small cry comes from upstairs, barely audible through the door that leads to the stairwell.

  “—Idea,” Elliot finishes. “Shit. Wait here for a minute.”

  He doesn’t want me near his daughter. I swallow roughly, my chest suddenly hurting painfully.

  He doesn’t want her to see me.

  He disappears into the stairwell, closing the door behind him. Right. Not welcome. I take the message loud and clear. I contemplate leaving, but it’s almost four in the morning and I want a few hours of refuge with Elliot before I call Jase to pick me up from the hospital.

  I gaze at the walls of the parlor, white sheets from wall to wall, glossy and printed with every tattoo design imaginable. Dragons and swirly letters and skulls. Symbols and quotes. Birds in flight.

  A lot of them look hand-drawn, and I notice a scrawl on the bottom corner of most of the pictures. EM.

  Elliot McRae.

  Wow. I knew he was good, but that he drew most of these things himself? Blows my mind.

  I touch my fingers to an intricate design of a black and white skull covered in what looks like shining yellow lights, surrounded by roses. It sounds like it wouldn’t match, but staring at the design, lit only by a soft lamp in the corner of the room and the threads of moonlight streaming through the cracks in the curtains, it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

  “Hey.”

  I turn to see Elliot at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to his apartment, a small child tucked into the space between his shoulder and chin. She’s got a mop of dark brown curls that spill over her face, masking it.

  I can’t help it. I beam, a smile stretching wide across my face. The tableau of Elliot as father, his daughter snuggling tight against him, stirs something old and buried within me.

  He’s a father, in the way I will never be a mother. I’m too emotionally damaged to risk ever bringing a child into this world. I just couldn’t do it. Nothing good could possibly come from the darkness inside of me.

  Elliot gestures with his head for me to follow and begins walking up the stairs. I follow, shutting the door that separates the tattoo studio space from the stairs behind me.

  I creep up the carpeted stairs as quietly as I can, wincing at the occasional creak in the floorboards beneath. I watch as Elliot rounds the corner at the top of the stairs and disappears. For a few moments I hear Kayla babble softly, before all goes quiet.

  Unsure of what to do with myself, I wander into the kitchen, the short flight of stairs having taken all of the air out of my lungs, leaving me panting. The bench is cool under my palms, and I stand there for a long time. The only sounds are the slow drip of a tap somewhere, and Elliot’s soothing sssssssh sounds coming from down the hallway.

  A few moments later, he enters the kitchen as well, the room dark, lit only by the soft lamp in the lounge room. I must look a sight because his face goes all soft and concerned like it used to, and he opens his arms to me. I step forward sheepishly, tucking myself in under his chin, just like old times. Except…something feels different. I mean, apart from the fact that we aren’t together anymore. Something physically feels strange between us, and I almost laugh when I realize what it is. I must be tired.

  “You know”, I say flippantly, “it was much easier to hug you without these bazookas between us.”

  His body stiffens, and not in a good way. “Yeah, well, the Gypsy Brothers must love them, right?” His tone is bitter and I open my mouth in surprise. I just don’t have a comeback for that, because he’s right. I hate that he’s right.

  Elliot releases me and takes a step back, scratches the back of his head and frowns. “Have you fucked him?”

  I feel my cheeks redden as I look anywhere but at his face. “Who, Jase? No!”

  Elliot gives me a maddening look. “Not Jase.”

  My blood runs cold and goose bumps prick up on my arms. I don’t respond, but the look on his face tells me that he can read the answer in my own glassy eyes.

  The devastation on his face is clear as day. “Jesus Christ, Juliette.”

  “I didn’t plan on it,” I say weakly. “It just…happened. It was my only way in. Don’t you understand?”

  I cringe as he says the words I’ve been avoiding all along.

  He makes a fist and hovers it above the bench, and I know the only reason he doesn’t slam it down as hard as he can is because his daughter is sleeping less than twenty feet away.

  “You’re telling me,” he starts quietly, “that your only choice was to initiate a sexual relationship with the man who led a gang-rape against you that almost killed you? The man who killed your father? Who probably killed your mother?”

  “He didn’t kill her,” I say glumly. “She’s still there.”

  Elliot’s eyes almost bulge out of his head. “WHAT?!”

  “Oh, I didn’t tell you?” I reply, brushing his comment aside. “I thought I did.”

  He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, rubbing the back of his head. He’s so agitated. This is not how I pictured this going down. I was looking for rest and refuge with a trusted face, a familiar ally—not a goddamn interrogation at four in the morning.

  He lets out a breath in a long whoosh and clasps his hands behind his head, every muscle in his arms and shoulders tensed, coiled tightly. In any other situation I’d say they look hot. But here, now, he looks downright scary.

  “You can’t go back there,” he says, his six foot towering over my five-and-a-half.

  “Stop it,” I reply, shaking my head. “I’m not having this conversation with you again.”

  He’s pissed. “Yes, you are. Goddamn it, Julz.”

  I see that look in his eye, that determined streak that made him persevere with me for three years, a girl with a death wish who anyone in their right mind would have given up on.

  “I made it worse, didn’t I? By being with you? Jesus, you don’t even know what’s right and what’s wrong. That’s on me.” He’s pacing now. “That’s on me. You were seventeen, for Christ’s sake. I should have known better.” He’s babbling now, not looking at me. “This is on me.”

  He’s blaming himself for my disgustingly dysfunctional relationship with Dornan? It’s not his fault. None of it is.

  I blink rapidly, remembering the first time we were together.

  Elliot and Juliette.

  It was beautiful.

  For the first time since I’d ‘died’, I’d felt whole again. Loved. Protected.

  Wanted.

  Elliot’s grandmother was hardly home. She had a gentleman friend she liked to stay with a few nights at a time, so Elliot and I would often sit out the front of her sprawling ranch house, on the patio that wrapped around the entire house, drinking beers into the evening. Well, he would drink beers and I would steal sips while he pretended not to notice.

  This one evening, it was still. Perfectly still. The cicadas were chirping in the summer heat—it was always so hot in Nebraska—while we swung silently in the love seat. Him on his side. Me on my side. He was wearing a tight white singlet, covered in grease and oil, and jeans. He’d left the police fo
rce soon after bringing me to his grandmother’s house, and worked as a mechanic. His hair was all mussed up with the day’s work. I was in my standard diner uniform—jeans and a blue T-shirt with Betty’s Grill printed across the breast pocket.

  I reached my hand out to grab the beer that sat in the space between us, clutched loosely in Elliot’s grip. I tugged at the bottle gently, pouting when Elliot didn’t let go.

  “You’re underage,” he said, not letting go of the beer.

  I smiled and dug a finger into his ribs, making him laugh. His grip loosened on the bottle, distracted by my tickling, and I plucked it from his hand victoriously.

  “I’m dead,” I said, draining the rest of the beer before replacing the empty bottle in his outstretched hand. “Dead girls are allowed to drink beer.”

  He just nodded, staring out to the plains around us on the remote property, a small smile at his lips.

  “Does that mean I can have my own beer now?” I asked playfully.

  Elliot stood and walked toward the door. “No,” he threw over his shoulder.

  I smiled, following him into the house.

  He was a sight to behold, standing at the open refrigerator, his eyebrows furrowed thoughtfully. His muscled arms glistened with a fine sheen of oil and sweat, a permanent fixture in the humid inland summer. I approached silently with bare feet, a mischievous smile stretching across my lips.

  He closed the fridge and turned, knocking into me with the arm that held his new beer.

  “What the?” he said, beer frothing over the sides of the bottle.

  I took the beer from his hand and set it on the table next to us, never taking my eyes away from his. His expression was a mixture of what looked like curiosity and resignation.

  “Julz,” he protested weakly.

  “Elliot,” I answered mockingly, pulling his singlet so that he had to step forward toward me.

  “What the—” he started as he stumbled towards me.

  “You think I don’t know why we sit on that bench all goddamn afternoon?” I whispered, on tiptoes now, wiping a smudge of grease from his cheek. “I know what you’re doing. You won’t let yourself be alone in this big old house with me. Why?”