by Lucy Smoke
fucking understand me?"
Dean leans forward, ignoring the fist I've made against his chest. His face
is mere inches from mine, his breath tangling with mine. "No," he says.
My eyebrows shoot upward. "Excuse me?"
"I said no," he repeats. "When it comes to your safety, I don't give a shit if
you get pissed. I don't want you near that man, and I don't care if you hate me
for it, I'll make sure you stay away from him."
"He's an old man," I reply. "He doesn't look dangerous to me."
When Dean smiles, it's not kind. It's vicious, like a lion baring its teeth at
its prey. "You and I both know that appearances can be deceiving, baby. So
sink your little nails into my skin, punch me, and threaten all you want. None
of that will alter any of my decisions when it comes to keeping you safe."
I release his shirt and take a step back, frowning at him. Even knowing
that the sedan is long gone by now, I can't stop my eyes from turning back to
the end of the driveway. "Why is he so dangerous?" I ask.
"Because he works for Lionel Frazier and Elric Smalls," Dean says. "He's
worked for them for decades and of all of their employees, he knows every
dirty little detail of their actions. That alone makes him about as dangerous as
a man can get."
"They're the guys' dads," I say. It doesn't sound like a question, but it is. I
cut my eyes back to Dean without moving my head.
Dean blows out a breath and leans his head back against the car. "I don't
trust my own father, Ava," he says. "But I trust theirs even less. Hopefully,
they'll be back within a day or two. If not, then a few weeks. It's never longer
than that."
I pivot to face him fully. "Do their dads often call them randomly?"
Dean stares at me for a moment before pushing away from the SUV. He
stalks forward, a predator in handsome human skin. "Not as often since they
came to Eastpoint U," Dean says as he slings an arm over my shoulders.
"Now, come on. I don't want to talk about this anymore. It's done." He leans
closer, the corners of his mouth curl upward. "At least one good thing came
out of this."
I purse my lips. "Oh?"
Dean pushes his nose into my hair, inhaling deeply against the side of my
head before I feel his teeth at the top of my ear. My stomach clenches. "With
the guys gone for a few days," he whispers, "I can fuck you all over the
fucking house. I say we start with the kitchen. The counter is just the right
height for us, don't you think?"
With a groan, I shove him away and stalk forward, striding for the front
entrance. What a fucking perv. Then again, it's not like I'm any better. I did,
after all, fuck him right next to a dead body.
Yeah, I'm just as fucked up as Dean Carter—perhaps even more.
40
AVALON
THREE DAYS LATER AND SORE AS HELL, THERE'S STILL NO WORD FROM
Braxton or Abel. "Why the fuck haven't they at least called yet?" I ask as
Dean slides a plate my way across the countertop.
His dark hair, wet from a recent shower, hangs down towards one side of
his face. and it shifts when he looks up at me. "This is normal," he assures
me.
I frown. "How the fuck is this normal?" I demand.
Dean crosses his arms over his naked chest, the muscles under his skin
flexing and the tattoos branded on him catching my eye. I've had enough sex
over the last seventy-two hours to last a fucking lifetime, but just looking at
him makes me want to climb him like a fucking tree. I shake my head, pick
out a piece of bacon from my sandwich, and pop it into my mouth as I wait
for an answer.
Blowing out a breath, Dean slides his tongue along the front of his teeth
as he considers his response. "I don't know why they do it, but all of our
fathers are fucking assholes. Maybe it comes with being an Eastpoint heir; I
don't know," he finally says. "There's a lot of pressure all of the time. It
doesn't make up for how they fucking act like they can control every little
aspect of our lives, but it at least explains it. When we were kids, we were
always together, and every once in a while the guys' fathers got something up
their asses and Brax and Abel would have to go back to their parents' place—
sometimes for a day or two, sometimes a little longer. Each time, though,
they'd have to give up their cells and they weren't allowed to contact anyone.
Not even me."
Something clenches in my gut. My fingers tighten on the edge of my
plate until I feel like the porcelain is going to crack in my grip. That doesn't
sound right. I turn my head and stare out of the back windows, across the
massive terrace and lawn beyond the French doors several paces away from
the kitchen island where I sit.
"What happens when they come back?" I ask.
"They don't like to talk about it," Dean says. His answer makes me like
this even less. I want to know where the guys are, what they're doing, and if
they're okay. That last thought brings me up short and I loosen my grip on the
plate. I want to know if they're okay, I realize. 'Cause I care. 'Cause I give a
shit. Fuck. These Sick Boys really have changed me.
I open my mouth to say something, but before I can get anything out, the
shrill sound of my cellphone cuts me off. With a sigh, I push the plate away
and reach into my back pocket, pulling it out, noting Rylie's number on the
screen before I flick the green button.
"Hey," I answer.
"Where are you?" Rylie demands.
I blink and then frown before straightening and casting a look at Dean.
He turns away and finishes cleaning up the mess from lunch. “I’m at the
house, why?”
“Can you get to campus?” she asks, ignoring my question. “I’m in the
dorm and I need you to get here. I think I’ve found something.”
Dean doesn’t turn around as I track him across the kitchen, staring at his
back. The eyes of his wolf stare back, already knowing what I’m going to do.
“Sure,” I say. “Give me a little bit.” I hang up and get up from the island.
“Hey,” I say, catching his attention. “I need to go see Rylie; she says she’s
got something. Mind if I take one of the cars?”
The wolf on Dean’s back disappears as he pivots to face me, arching a
brow. “You’re asking?” He smirks and then shakes his head. “No, I’ll drive
you.”
“I don’t need a chauffeur,” I tell him.
“Didn’t say you did, baby,” Dean replies as he circles the island and
comes towards me. My heart rate spikes as he places one hand against the
countertop on either side of me and leans close. “I’m gonna head out as well
and I’d rather be the one picking you up and dropping you off.”
“Or I could drive myself,” I suggest as his lips draw nearer until they’re
hovering just above mine.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Ava,” Dean growls. “Do you always have to fight?
Just say yes.”
I laugh and lean up on my toes, kissing him hard before I fall back down
and then duck under one arm. “Fine,” I call back as I head for the bedroom.
“I’ll concede this once. Hurry up, she sounded lik
e it was important.”
“Do I need to go with you?” he asks.
My feet come to a stop at the edge of the hallway and I turn back,
thinking. She hadn’t said Dean needed to be there. I shake my head. “Nah,” I
say, “I’ll tell you whatever she says anyway.”
With that, I head up to the second floor to get ready. When I come back
down, Dean’s grabbed a t-shirt—probably directly from the laundry room or
one of the guys’ spares since he never came up after me—and is waiting for
me by the garage, flicking a keyring over his index finger while staring at his
phone screen.
“You good?” I ask, making him look up.
He smiles, but it’s a bit tight. “Fine,” he says. “Let’s go.”
Minutes later, we pull up through the entrance of the Eastpoint campus
and hang a left towards the Havers dorm. “Don’t leave,” Dean says as he
slows to a roll in front of the building.
“I’ll be fine,” I huff.
He snatches my arm before I can reach for the door handle. “I fucking
mean it, Ava,” he grits out. “Don’t fucking leave Havers. Stay in the dorm
until I come back to pick you up.”
I frown at him. “I’m not an idiot,” I remind him.
Dean sighs. “I know—actually—” He releases me and reaches for the
glovebox. It pops open, and he rummages around inside for a brief moment
before pulling out a handgun. “I want you to keep this while you’re here.”
“You’re giving me a gun?” I take it from him and hold it up, checking the
safety before glancing back at him.
Dean’s lips press together and he turns back to the windshield as he
releases my arm. "This is just a precaution,” he says. “Regardless, don’t leave
this fucking building, okay?”
“I’m not going to do anything stupid,” I tell him. “I can take care of
myself.” My hands squeeze the gun in my lap. “But I’ll stay put, just keep me
updated.” Dean’s jaw hardens, and I lean across the console and press my lips
to the corner of his mouth. His head whips around and he captures them in
the brief second before I can pull away. His tongue slides against mine. He
devours me and ruins all logical thought. When he finally pulls back, it’s hard
to breathe … almost like he’s stolen the very breath from my lungs.
“Be careful,” he says.
I nod and then turn towards the door, popping it open, and stepping out.
Just before the door swings shut, I catch it and dip my head to look inside the
interior. "Call me if Brax or Abel contact you."
Dean rolls his head to the side and he gives me a small smile. "I will,
baby. Promise." Taking a step back, I shut the door and pivot towards the
front of Havers dorm. The gun is heavy in my hand, I check the safety one
last time before I tuck it into the back waistband of my pants. I feel the burn
of Dean’s eyes on me as I head towards the front doors. He doesn't drive off
until I'm inside the building.
I stride down the empty hallway of the dorm, noting that the front desk is
closed and most of the hallway lights have been turned out. Is she the only
one still here? I wonder as I reach the second floor and cut towards my old
dorm room. Floorboards creak under my footsteps and before I can even lift
my fist to knock, the door swings inward and Rylie appears wearing a nearly
see through ripped white t-shirt over a black sports bra and black leggings.
She appears out of breath and I glance behind her, trying to find the
source of her agitation when she grips my wrist and yanks me inside.
"You good?" I ask as I reach down and peel her fingers off my arm.
"No," she says immediately, running a hand through her knotted purple
hair. "No, I am not fucking good. Ava. Jesus—fuck. Okay." She spins
towards me and pushes me back and it's my shock more than anything that
gives her the strength to shove me onto the nearest surface—the extra bed
shoved into the corner across from hers. "You need to sit down for this," she
tells me, her voice shaking.
"What's wrong?" I ask, watching her curiously.
Rylie rakes her teeth over her bottom lip and turns away from me, pacing
across the room and back again. This—I realize—must have been the cause
of her breathlessness. She's probably been pacing for a while now. I release a
slow breath and stand up.
"Hey," I say, stopping her in her tracks as I grab hold of her arms and
keep her steady. "Calm down. Whatever it is—"
"It's big," Rylie bursts out, cutting me off. Her eyes are wide. White teeth
flash as she sinks them back into her lower lip and stares up at me. She chews
on it for a moment before letting it go. "It's really fucking big." Her voice
drops to a whisper. She eyes the bed behind me. "You really should be sitting
down," she says.
"What is it?" I ask. "Just spit it out."
Rylie lifts her hands and cups them over her face, pressing her palms up
into her eye sockets before she rips herself away from my grasp and turns
towards her new laptop, matte black this time instead of the average silver.
She lifts it up and turns it around, shoving the screen in my face.
"Do you recognize this man?" she demands. "Do you know who he is?"
My eyes fall to the image on her screen and I take a step back. "Yeah..." I
frown at it and then lift my gaze back to hers. "But how do you have that
picture?"
Her eyebrows shoot up. "You know him?"
Depicted on her computer screen is the picture of a young man in his
early twenties—the same man that had been standing alongside Nicholas
Carter in a photo frame the last time I'd been to the Eastpoint offices on
campus. Chaz Mason—my father. This one is slightly different— he is
slightly different. Instead of a suit, he wears basketball shorts and a plain t-
shirt tossing hoops into a shitty basketless hoop.
"He's my father," I tell her.
Rylie snaps the computer shut and gapes at me. "How do you know that?"
she demands.
I frown and gesture to her. "Does this have anything to do with why you
called me here?" I ask. "You said you found something."
"Yes," she replies. "I found out who your father is and … you already
knew!" In a strange, un-Rylie like move, she turns and tosses the laptop onto
her mattress and turns back to me. "You were an Eastpoint heir this whole
time and you didn't think that was information I needed to know when tracing
back money trails."
I stop dead. "Excuse me?" I can't have heard her right. "What the fuck did
you just say?"
"Your father, Avalon—Chaz Mason—"
"Yeah, no, I got that part," I say, holding up a hand. "What I don't
understand is the next thing you just said—an Eastpoint heir?"
I try to think back, but no—nothing in my recollection connects with that.
Nicholas had said that Chaz was his best friend, but he'd never mentioned ...
no, of course not. I stare at Rylie without actually seeing her. That bastard
had fucking conned me—or had he? At the very least, he'd fucking lied to my
fucking face. Best friends? Eastpoint heir? What the actual fuck?
Rylie's chest rises and fa
lls as she watches me. I don't know if my internal
confusion is showing on my face, but I'm sure as fuck not understanding what
any of this means. If my father was an Eastpoint heir, then none of the shit
that had happened should have, right? If he was rich and powerful, then what
the fuck had I been doing growing up in the gutter?
"Ava..."
I lift my head and lock eyes with her. "You need to tell me everything
you've fucking found, Rylie," I say. "And tell me now."
Her lashes flicker, but she inhales and nods. "I was tracking the secondary
money trail," she begins. "Just like the first trail went to a bunch of odd LLCs
that didn't seem to have any actual owner, this one did too. Both come from
Eastpoint funds.”
"Both of them?"
She nods.
"How's that possible? Wouldn't it just be one trail then, why would both
of them come from Dean's father."
"They wouldn't," Rylie replies. "I said they both came from Eastpoint
funds, not that they came from Nicholas Carter."
I take a step back and sink onto the uncovered mattress. My nails sink
into the sides as I grip it and try to figure out what this means, I'm smart
enough to memorize shit for those stupid standardized tests high schools hand
out, but this is next level confusing. I'm not a detective. “What are you
saying?”
Rylie turns back to her laptop, snatching it up and bringing it over to me
as she flips it back open. Her fingers fly over the keys with an assuredness
and familiarity that showcases her talent. "Nicholas wouldn't pay your mother
twice, but your father—Chaz Mason—was an Eastpoint heir and because of
that, he was loaded. Avalon, you're a fucking heiress."
I shake my head. I don't—I can't deal with the gravity of that right now.
"Just focus on the money trail," I snap.
She winces, but nods. "Okay, so it's like this," Rylie continues. "When
Chaz Mason died almost nineteen years ago, he had a secret trust fund set up
to pay out when you turned eighteen. This second money trail started the day
after you were born but you've never had a bank account, so it went to your
mother's.”
"How is that possible?" A fucking trust fund? I am not a trust fund bitch.
My head is reeling.
"Well, I sort of discovered it by accident," Rylie admits with a wince.
