“Because they're fucking cowards is what,” Spencer snorts, swinging his gray shoes up onto the bench and leaning back like he owns the place. He sort of does, in a way. Nobody gets weed on campus without going through him. That's why I'm not overly concerned with the upcoming debates. The boys are going to kill it, I just know they are.
Then again, they don't know what's coming.
None of us do.
“Mm, no, I don't think that's it,” Church says, turning his attention back to us. “They're very clearly willing to attack in public places—like they did to Chuck in California. That, and they've obviously got an in with the police. So why? I've been asking myself that since we were at the onsen.”
“And did you come up with an answer?” Ranger asks, squeezing me close and putting his face up against the side of my neck in just such a way that my toes curl inside my shiny new shoes. Dad sent over several boxes of Mary Janes with Adamson Academy logos on the heel. I'm not a huge fan of them, but they look better with my new uniform than the brown loafers I had on before.
“I did,” Church says, flashing one of his high wattage smiles. “It's because at least one of them doesn't go to this school.”
My brows go up as I scoot my lunch tray closer to the edge of the table, so I can reach my lemonade. They make lovely strawberry lemonade here, with little umbrellas, glass straws, and bits of candied fruit on the side of the glass. I'm also aware that Ranger is most definitely not letting me off of his lap, so I better get used to sitting here while I eat.
“Meaning?” the twins ask in unison, picking up a banana each and peeling it. They both immediately go for blow job miming jokes and I roll my eyes.
“Meaning that I think we should check out Jeff Rabot, and the other holdouts in Nutmeg.” Church pauses as the doors to the cafeteria swing open and several girls walk in.
The entire cafeteria goes quiet as Aster clasps her hands together in front of her champagne and honey colored plaid skirt and smiles at everyone.
“Hello boys,” she says, beaming like crazy, her frizzy orange hair fluffed up around her face. “I hear today's the assembly where students announce they’re running for Student Council?”
“Oh, shit,” Spencer murmurs, paling a bit and reaching up with a single finger to loosen his tie.
Oh, shit. Oh, shit is right.
Because the only thing that could possibly convince the students to vote out their only party drug supplier … is a hot chick in a skirt.
“They can't do this,” Spencer grumbles as we move through the dark shadows of the woods together. It's late, not obscenely late, but late enough that we're most definitely going to be missed during the nightly room checks. Nathan's going to be pissed. Micah suggested we bribe him, but Church just shook his head and the case was closed.
I feel like he knows something.
I feel like he's always known something.
Zipping up my sparkly hoodie with the rainbow on it (a gift from Ranger), I turn back to the trail we're following—one of Spence's secret trails, courtesy of his brother Jack—that lets out on the road that curves down the mountain, away from Adamson and toward the tiny little nothing town of Nutmeg, Connecticut.
“They can, and they are,” Church muses, hands in his pockets, a black knit sweater on his lithe form, paired with jeans that probably cost more than my dad's wedding band—the one he's still wearing, by the way. Despite the divorce, despite the fact that Mom's dating Mr. Dave. “It's going to be tough, with the three girls running against us.”
“And they put Mark on the ballot? I mean, that's just fucking insane,” Spencer groans, picking up a stick and swinging it around like a sword. “Mark Grandam for secretary. The dude can't spell the word idiot to save his life. And then adding Gareth in as treasurer? What a joke. He can't even count the number of balls he doesn’t have.”
“Who's Gareth?” I ask, picking the long, reaching limb of a blackberry tendril off my black skinny jeans and then shrieking as Ranger lifts me up and carries me admirably through a mud puddle, not giving a shit about soaking his black combat boots. He sets me down on the other side, but not before pausing to look into my eyes.
“Gag, much?” Spencer asks as a stray shaft of moonlight catches on his silver hair. But he doesn't sound that mad about it, not anymore. He really reined in the jealousy after our talk, and the effort isn't lost on me. “Gareth McConnell,” he continues, tossing his stick aside and then lighting up a cigarette before handing one over to Ranger. “Pretty sure he's related to Mark's girlfriend, What's-Her-Name.”
“Selena?” I ask, raising a brow as we come out the other side of the trees and onto the road where the sleek, black length of the limo is waiting.
“Gareth used to sell weed with Eugene and Spencer,” the twins supply, each one pointing across their chest at Spencer. “But he can't count with worth shit, and we're pretty sure he skims cash off the top.”
“Either way, he's a terrible choice for treasurer.” Spencer kicks a rock and then tucks his hands into the pockets of his blue jeans, glancing back at us with that fierce turquoise stare of his. “Why am I the only one freaking out about this? Were you guys at the same debate I was today?”
“I could really use the Student Council job for my college applications,” I admit. I actually took the twins' advice and applied to Bornstead University in Colorado. There's not a snowball's chance in hell that I'm getting in, but at least I can say I tried. My second choice was UC Santa Cruz because I figured at least I'd be close to the twins' house. I shake my head and push away thoughts of college. It’s still fall for crap’s sake; I have months to worry about what life will be like when Adamson is over.
“We killed it with our speeches today,” Micah mumbles, ruffling up his red-orange hair in a move that's adorably similar to his best friend.
“And yet nobody was listening to the actual words coming out of our mouths.” Tobias picks an orange leaf off a low-hanging tree limb, tucking it behind my ear as Ranger opens the door and lets me slide into the backseat of the limo first. He's right though. Nobody was listening to the boys talk because they were all too busy checking out the new girls, laughing at Mark's stupid ass jokes, and gossiping about the official announcement my father made just before the debates started.
Integrated student body. Mixed gender population.
He looked pointedly in my direction at least three times during the speech, too.
“It's our fault,” Spencer says, climbing over a grumbling Ranger first before he scales my lap and flops into the seat on my left side. “We took the only girl in school for our own, so she doesn't have as much sway over the student body as she should.”
I snort, but that's pretty much the gist of it. During my first week in female form, the boys were a tad … vicious. How stupid is it that I like their ridiculous caveman behavior?
“And thus, we are all animals,” I say aloud, and everyone turns to stare at me as I cough and choke into my hand and pretend I've got some level of social decorum. Church smiles, one of his big bright smiles that I realize was never actually fake, and then taps his knuckles against the glass of the window.
“Does it strike anyone as odd that Jason Lambert was murdered, and then here Aster Hayes is, campaigning against me?”
“Why not just kill you then?” Ranger asks, tapping his combat boot against the floor, blue-black hair razored and falling in glorious shimmering strands around his face. He notices me looking and then smirks in my direction, sapphire eyes bright. My body reacts instantly, and I have to suck in a sharp breath to keep my cool. “If this cult stuff is all true, and Jenica was killed because of it, then why not just off you? Or me?”
Spencer takes my hand, curling his fingers through mine, and sending goose bumps up along my skin. When I glance his way, at his turquoise eyes and silver hair, I feel my body react in the same way it did when I looked at Ranger. Yep. Yep. In love with every boy. My cheeks and ears heat up, and Spence raises a questioning brow.
>
“Maybe they tried, you know, when we were in the tunnels?” I suggest, looking away from him and back toward Church and the twins. The McCarthy boys are paying attention, but they're also absently entertaining a private thumb war together as well. Looks like Micah might win. “They lured us down there and locked us in, didn't they?”
“Mm,” Church muses, but doesn't reply. Either he doesn't think I'm following the right train of thought, or else he doesn't know.
And that scares me.
Because if Church can't figure it out, then nobody can.
About an hour later, we're emerging from the darkness of the woods, the faint twinkle of the town's lights in the distance. Church rolls the window down between us and the driver and requests that he stop where we're at, leaving us with a good ten-minute walk to hit the first stop sign that leads into town.
“We're going full sleuth, huh?” Tobias asks, stretching his arms above his head and surveying the quiet town of Nutmeg with eyes that look like emeralds under the glow of the moon. “Like, true gumshoeing? I feel like we need hats, and little pipes, and then every time I make a brilliant deduction, I'll consult with dear Watson over here—”
“Bro, if either of us is Sherlock Holmes, it's me. And you're Watson,” Micah announces, tucking his hands into the front pocket of his Adamson Academy hoodie. Tobias is wearing the same hoodie, just in navy blue instead of champagne.
“Bullshit. You might win at drag racing, but my grades are better than yours by far. Plus, I'm older by eight minutes. That makes me the detective, and you the sidekick.”
“Remind me how many fights you've won versus how many I've won. I'm superior in the ring, and I'm better at sex. Even Charlotte thinks that. I'm Sherlock.”
I roll my eyes, because they both know I think they're equally good at, um, well, you know. Sex, Charlotte, say sex. If you're mature enough to do it, you're mature enough to say it.
“Neither of you is Sherlock,” Church says, pausing on the corner of Main and Adamson (yep, the road that goes up the hill to the school is that cleverly named), and looking down the long length of empty sidewalk at the pools of light cast by the streetlamps, ringed in ominous shadows. “I am Sherlock. Ranger is Watson. You'd both be lucky to be our faithful bloodhounds. Now shush.”
Church pulls out a set of keys from his pocket and leads us across the street, and down a narrow alley behind the row of businesses. I recognize the bookstore right away, from the cute little bistro sets sitting on the outdoor patio. The weather's a bit too cold to sit outside right now, so they're chained together in stacks and pushed under the overhang. The lights, however, are still on.
I don't see anyone, but my heart is racing like crazy, and my palms are soaked in sweat. I'm a terrible sleuth, that much I can promise.
“Come on,” Church says, unlocking the back door to the business just next door. On the other side, there's a parking lot and the side entrance to the Jaw Flapper, the same one the twins dragged me through last year. He ushers us all in and locks the door behind us, his blond hair bright, even in the dark.
“What's the plan?” Spencer asks, picking up a glass clown and shuddering as he sets it aside. “No wonder I've never been in this store before,” he adds under his breath.
“This is Closet and Trunk Antiques,” Church says, not bothering to whisper, but not raising his voice either. “My father bought my mother's engagement ring from here when they were seventeen.” He looks around, using what little light is trickling in from the orange streetlamp outside to see. Subconsciously, I rub at the ring on my finger and Church smiles. “And yes, that one, too.”
“You bought a used ring?” Spencer asks, giving Church a look. “You? Of all people? How much was it?”
“In some instances—rare instances—tradition is more important than price.” Church moves away from the door and toward a set of stairs with a chain across them, and an Employees Only sign dangling in the middle. He moves it out of his way as I stand there, short of breath, bathed in the shadows of the antique shop. It has a bit of a musty smell, but it's got a hominess to it that I like.
“I've never been in an antique shop at night,” I whisper, even though it's obvious that we don't need to be quite so silent. “It's equal parts creepy and cool.”
“You’re only saying that because you don’t know about the ghosts that haunt this place,” the twins whisper, coming up on either side of me and parking their elbows on my shoulders.
“There's no such thing as ghosts,” I snort, but they exchange a look over my head and then shrug.
“Only people who are truly afraid of ghosts say such things,” Tobias continues, pretending to look around the looming shapes of old wardrobes and ancient rocking chairs, like he's on the lookout for something.
“Jenica wasn't the only person to be murdered in this town,” Micah whispers, after a quick glance over his shoulder to see that Ranger's fully climbed the stairs after Church. “Back around that same time, there was a foreign exchange student who was found dead in the local park. There were no signs of trauma, no evidence of a struggle, but he was clutching the key to this very store, the store where he'd been working part-time.”
“Okay, that's enough of that crap,” Spencer says, yanking me away from the snickering redheaded demon assholes. “There was a kid who died in the park, but the coroner determined it was insulin shock. Ignore them.” He takes my hand in his, squeezing it hard, and then tugs me up the steps to an office area. Antiques clutter this portion of the store, too, but it's clean and well-kempt. A stray shaft of moonlight highlights a ledger that's been carefully scribbled in. Looks like this store is in the red—big time. Maybe whoever runs it should try using a computer? I bite my lip and glance at the open door that leads to yet another set of stairs, these ones narrow and steep and most definitely not up to modern code requirements.
Spencer and I continue up, with the twins close behind us, and come up to an attic room with windows on all sides. We can see the whole of Main Street from the front window, the flat roof of the sporting goods store on one side, and the three-story building on the other that houses the bookstore. As far as I could tell, only the first floor is part of the business.
In the center of the room, there's a miniature replica of the antique store, complete with little people, furniture, and plants. The detail is absolutely stunning, even if it is hard to see in the dark.
“The woman who owned this store before my parents bought it—and who still runs it—made this with her miniatures club almost forty years ago.” Church leans over beside me and peers into the top floor, looking at an exact miniature replica of the room where we're standing.
“She did a damn good job,” I murmur, thinking of the numbers in red ink in the ledger. “Maybe a better job than she does running the business. Do your parents know how far in the red this place is?”
Church smiles at me again, an expression that's becoming a lot more frequent, and then stands up.
“I'll tell you the story later, Chuck. For now, we're collecting information.”
“Are we just here on the off-chance that something happens, or do you have something specific in mind that you’re looking for?” Ranger asks, just before the lights next door go on, flooding the second floor of the bookstore. From here, I can see a round table set with chairs, a kitchenette, and a fireplace on the far wall that's not currently lit.
Jeffrey Rabot walks in and sweeps over to it, using a Duraflame log to get a roaring fire going.
“There are only five businesses left in Nutmeg that my parents don't own,” Church says as the boys and I fan out along the length of the window. Hopefully, it's too bright in there and too dark up here that he won't see us if he looks, but I still get that creepy feeling on the back of my neck, like somebody's watching me. “The business owners meet up with Jeff here, every week, like clockwork.”
“So we're just hoping they do something suspicious?” Spencer asks, glancing in Church's direction. “Or did you p
lant some fancy recording equipment in there so we can actually hear what they're saying?”
Church's amber eyes watch the scene below as Jeff sets up what looks like a pretty nice charcuterie board for his guests.
“I did inquire if my parents' security team might be able to get in there and set up some surveillance.”
“And?” Ranger prompts, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because there always is one, when it comes to Church Montague.
“They couldn't get in. There's a team watching Jeff's business. All the businesses, actually, that my parents don't own. Now tell me: how do five struggling business owners afford a security team that rivals my parents’?” He turns toward Ranger, and even though I can't see his face, I can hear the coldness in his voice. “They don't. If there’s a cult at Adamson, then it’s run by some of the more powerful families, otherwise my parents would know all about it.” He turns back to the window as Jeff opens the door and welcomes in a few new faces that I know I've never seen before. “And why on earth would these people refuse the overblown prices my parents have offered them for their businesses? Jeff’s whiny complaints about not wanting to sell the store are bullshit. He hates it here, and he always has.”
“So you think the business owners are part of the cult?” I ask, but Church doesn't respond, his face tightening in frustration. He's smart, but he hasn't figured that part of the equation out just yet.
The Forever Crew Page 13
