by Dallas Cole
“We don’t exactly want them looking into our own dark corners,” Drazic says.
“A bunch of fucking pussies.” And with that, Nash slams his fist against the wall.
I jump, spatula clattering out of my hands. Shit. I really don’t want to get dragged into a crew argument. For me, crew arguments must be how it feels for other people to watch their parents fighting. My chest gets tight and my heart aches, desperately wanting everyone to be right and wrong at the same time.
But like a little kid, I’m helpless to change anything. I’m part of the crew and not all at the same time. I only get mixed up in the crew’s business when they let me. Kind of like my relationship with Nash. Apparently he’s only shown me his fun, carefree side. This darkness is something new, and again, I feel helpless to change it.
Whatever their concern is with the McManuses, it sounds like it’s better for everyone that I not know about it.
“Fine,” Nash says, after what must have been a series of harsh stares between him and Uncle D. Drazic always wins staring contests. “Then I’ll do it on my own.”
“Nash—” Jagger shouts.
“Don’t you ‘Nash’ me. You don’t fucking get it, all right?” Nash huffs. “I need this.”
Drazic sighs. “So you’d abandon the crew? Elena? Just to get a cold dish of revenge?”
I grit my teeth. I’m not sure I want to hear his response.
“It doesn’t matter.” Nash’s footsteps move toward the kitchen. “Nothing matters without Troy.”
He crashes into the kitchen, icy eyes landing right on me. I take a step back. The eggs hiss against the frying pan, filling the stretch of silence between us. I want to be angry at him—how dare he treat me as something so inconsequential? Cast me off so easily over the memory of his brother? But just like always, I’m the one who relents. I drop my gaze and wait for him to take control, just like I always do. I really am a little kid when it comes to the crew. And especially when it comes to Nash.
“The fuck is your problem?” Nash snaps.
“I’m—I’m just trying to fix breakfast—”
He throws his hands in the air. “There you fucking go again. Trying to pretend like everything’s normal. Like you can just cook some fucking breakfast and make everything okay.”
I clench the spatula harder. No. If I get angry, too, it won’t make anything better. But he’s pushing me closer and closer.
“How the fuck can you stand it, Elena? How can you pretend nothing is wrong?”
Something in me snaps. This whole week I’ve put up with his moods, his outrage, his snide comments and all his efforts to rewrite history. To make Lennox out like this longstanding villain who was always plotting to destroy us. And I’m done with it.
“One of us has to.” My whole body shakes as I say it. “’Cause right now, it’s not Lennox tearing the crew apart. It’s you.”
Nash freezes. Goosebumps rise on my arms. Shit. I shouldn’t have said that. Shouldn’t have even dared to speak Lennox’s name. “What did you just say to me?”
I turn my back to him and flop the eggs onto a plate, quickly as I can. “Someone has to hold this crew together.”
“Just—just stop.” He groans. “I don’t need your fucking Betty Homemaker bullshit, trying to mother us, trying to be this clingy little leech. All you want to do is keep me from feeling what I feel.”
“I’m trying to talk some sense into you,” I say. “Trying to keep you from doing something you’ll regret.”
“Regret? You wanna talk to me about regret?”
I shut off the stove and face him again, crossing my arms. God, he looks a wreck. Deep, dark grooves under his eyes, veins throbbing along his temple, his dark blonde hair stiff and unwashed. All week, I’ve tried to soothe that sorrow away. Tried to pull him out of that shadow. But now, I feel nothing. No instinct to save him. I’m tired. So tired of trying.
“Regret,” Nash says slowly, “is that I didn’t fucking kill that son of a bitch three years ago.”
“God dammit, Nash. You have to stop living in the past,” I say. “None of this is going to bring Troy back. What’s done is done. Don’t let it wreck the present, too.”
Nash tosses his head back and laughs. A dry, hysterical laugh, wrung with exhaustion. I wince, half-expecting him to hurt me, or hurt someone else. But instead he slumps against the kitchen wall. “You just don’t fucking get it, do you?” He snatches his jacket off of the kitchen table chair. “Of all the people, Elena. You should fucking have my back.”
“And why is that?” Does he think I’m blind to what’s happening? That I’m too stupid to see what he’s doing to our crew?
“You should support me. It’s your fucking job.”
I raise one eyebrow. “Well, it’s not. Not when it’s threatening my family.”
He meets my gaze. But I am my uncle’s niece. And I am done caring. I’m not backing down anymore. I’ve spent all week walking on eggshells, trying to play nice, trying to soothe him, trying to hold him back. I can’t muster the energy for it again.
“Then maybe we should take a break,” Nash says.
For a moment, my icy anger shatters. I feel my chest caving in and tears needling at the corners of my eyes. How do I live without Nash? He’s been my whole world for two years now. Ever since I became an adult, he’s been there for me—my first—well, almost everything, and always there when I wanted a good time or to hang with the crew.
But this is the first real adversity we’ve faced together. Everything else we’ve sidestepped or ignored—whatever he gets up to with Uncle D and the rest when I’m not around. I never ask about the other girls he flirts with at races, because I don’t want to be That Girl. I never pry into his inner thoughts, because that’s not what fun, hot girls do. I build his cars and I cheer at his rallies and I’m always down to get dirty whenever he wants it.
I tried to be strong for him when he needed it most. And this is how he reacts? Screw him. I don’t need to carry us both.
“Yeah.” I thrust my shoulders back. “Yeah, maybe we should.”
Nash’s upper lip twitches, like he was hoping I might fight him on it. But I only feel more certain the longer I let the words hang in the air. I think a break is just what I need—time to clear my head and get over this ridiculous attachment I didn’t know I still felt toward Lennox.
And maybe Nash can get over his rage.
“Yeah, well. Stay out of my way. And your uncle, too.” He jams his arms into his driving jacket, and storms out the back door.
I slump back against the counter, drained, and let out a muffled groan. It was the right thing to do, and I know it is, but as relieved as I feel, I’m also terrified. Not just for Nash, and whatever damned foolish thing he’s about to do. But for Lennox, too.
It’s not my problem anymore. That’s what I try to tell myself, anyway. If Nash and I are taking a break, then I no longer have to give a shit what he does. But he still poses a threat to Lennox. Lennox, who’s already long since paid for his mistakes. Lennox, who still sets my pulse racing and my breath stuttering with his dark lashes and lean frame and sad but honest smile. I couldn’t bear to see him hurt again. He’s suffered enough for a lifetime. Is he really a monster for life because of one horrible mistake, like Nash seems to think? Am I a monster for wanting to forgive him?
Uncle Drazic knocks on the doorway, hesitant. His tanned face is sagging, exhausted, but there’s pity in his gaze. “Hey, djevojka.” He leans into the kitchen. “Wanna talk?”
I sigh, and grab the plate of fried eggs from the counter and slide it onto the table. “Not so much.”
Drazic tugs at my bun and drops into one of the kitchen chairs. I pour myself a mug full of coffee and join him. “Well, too bad, Ellie. I’m gonna do it anyway.” He grins. “It’s part of that whole ‘uncle’ thing I signed on for.”
I manage a weak smile, in spite of the anger and hurt still churning under my skin. “Not like you really had a choice.”
>
“That’s life. We play the hand we’re dealt.” He tilts his head toward me. “And I know you haven’t had the easiest of hands.”
I shrug and take a sip of coffee. I love my uncle as fiercely as I’d love my own dad, if he were here. But there are some things I can’t talk to him about. My feelings toward Lennox definitely fall under that category. Lennox is supposed to be dead to him, after all. No use feeling conflicted about a corpse.
Drazic grabs a fork and gestures with it toward the eggs. I nod, and he pulls the plate toward him, then stuffs a bite into his mouth. “Mm. Delicious.” He wipes a dribble of yolk from the corner of his mouth, earning him another small grin from me. “All right, Ellie. I only want to talk about this once, so listen up.”
I set my jaw and brace myself. Is he going to scold me for giving up so easily on Nash?
Drazic sighs. “You’re not handling this Lennox business too well, either, are you? Is that part of what’s going on here?” He wrinkles his brow. “Having Lennox back in town is tough. It’s tough for me, too, and not just because of how badly Nash is taking it. But I can’t imagine what you’re feeling. I know how hard it was on you when Lennox left.”
“Uh . . .” I mean, I can’t deny it. Uncle D always knows when I’m lying. Something in our Drazic blood.
“C’mon. Everyone saw how you two were together. Ever since Lennox came to our crew. I get it, djevojka.”
I shake my head. “Look, I promise you, Lennox never did—I mean, he wouldn’t even consider—”
“Yes, I know. He’s a perfect gentleman. And besides, he never would’ve betrayed Amber. Although, I could always tell when they were on the outs, because he’d spend even more time around you . . .”
I press my face in my hands, feeling a rush of heat to my cheeks.
“Man, it drove Nash nuts, though, that Lennox had your approval and he didn’t. Nash never could stand it when Lennox got one up on him, whether it was a faster time on trials or a pretty girl’s eye . . . anything.”
I arch one eyebrow. “Really? I never noticed they were so competitive with each other.”
“Moj Boze, Ellie. Are you kidding?” Drazic helps himself to another forkful of fried eggs. “It’s the main reason he asked you out, I think, after you turned eighteen. Lennox had been locked up by then, and it was just one more way to stick it to him.”
I stare at him open-mouthed. “Seriously?”
Drazic shrugs before answering me around his food. “That’s how it looked to me, yeah.”
“And you were—okay with this?”
“Okay? Please. He asked me for permission, but let’s not kid ourselves. I’ve always wanted you to decide for yourself who you are. Who you want to be with. If you didn’t like the way Nash treated you, well—that’s for you to decide.”
“I guess I did a crappy job of that, then,” I say. The first sign of trouble between us, and Nash is ready to ditch. My anger still burns inside of me, both at Nash and myself.
“Not at all, djevojka.” He reaches across the table and pats my hand. Once more, I’m smiling to myself. “It takes time, but we always find ourselves in the end.”
I snatch the fork away from him and help myself to some of the eggs, as well. “And what about the crew?” I ask. “What’re you going to do about Lennox and Nash?”
“Nash is . . . a problem still,” Drazic admits, looking down. “But I had words with Mama McManus. If Nash tries to attack Lennox, he does it alone. Now, whether she’ll honor that or not is another matter . . .”
“You really think he will?” I ask. But then I shake my head at myself. “I just can’t believe he’s still this angry.” And that he could toss me aside so easily over this, though if that’s how he really feels, maybe I should be relieved.
“Troy is a wound that he never let scab over,” Drazic says. “But right now I think Nash is just looking for an advantage. He got in some good hits on Lennox after last night’s race—I think that’ll help him calm down.”
I swirl the fork around, gathering up the last of the eggs. “And what about Lennox?” I ask softly. “Can you ever forgive him?”
Drazic sighs. “He tore up my crew. Our family. I can’t forgive him for that.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, but I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s Drazic’s code, through and through.
“And if Nash does anything to tear us up—really tear us up—you better believe I’ll treat him the same.”
7
Lennox
I pick up the pool stick and almost want to weep with relief. Long sticks, heavy balls, arguments, betting—believe it or not, pool isn’t exactly something we were allowed to play in prison. I missed it almost as much as I missed driving. And thanks to the McManus clan, I’m once again free to do both.
Well. I scrub a piece of chalk against the tip of my cue and glance over at my pool partner. “Free” is definitely a relative term these days.
Rory McManus scrubs at his too-sharp jaw and eyes the table. He’s the physical inverse of his brother, Sean, who is a major reason I survived life on the inside. Hollow-cheeked where Sean was soft and kind, sneering where Sean always found a way to smile. Rory seemed a little slow that day I drove my piece of shit Camry out to meet him and Mama McManus farther down the ridge to see if they’d be willing to work with me. But every now and then I catch him looking at the people around him with this sharp, vicious glint in his eyes that warns me that there’s a lot more going on under the hood than I realize.
He leans over the table, lines up his shot, and breaks. The balls scatter wide at the far end of the table, and two drop right into the pocket. Solids both. He points toward the six ball with his cue, then, wordless, indicates the pocket he’s aiming for. I nod to accept his call. Then he sinks the six ball in, calm as can be.
“That was some mighty fine driving the other night,” Rory says, as he walks around the table. His teeth click together as he surveys the lay of the game.
“Thanks.” We’re in a semi-private section of the pub, but I try to keep my tone low, all the same. Not that it matters much, I suspect. The McManuses probably own every damn person in this bar. I roll my shoulders back, trying to loosen up. “You loaned me a mighty fine ride.”
Rory gestures to the four ball and the far corner. Lines up, but his angle is off; the cue ball skips to one side. He snarls, his smooth face suddenly contorted in rage, and lets loose a sharp swear. Grips his cue with both hands like he’s about to snap it over his knee.
I take a step back. If this were my old crew, Jagger acting up or Nash snapping at me, I’d tell him to chill the fuck out. That it’s just a game. But we don’t have that kind of trust. And outbursts like this aren’t about to instill it.
Then, just as quick as he flew into a rage, he’s all calm and easy smiles once more. “Go ahead.” He gestures to the striped thirteen, not far from a side pocket. “That one looks ready to pop.”
I nod and move to line up my shot, but my stomach is turning inside. Something about being this close to Rory McManus feels a little too much like swallowing poison.
“Yeah,” Rory drawls, “the Mustang’s a beaut. Pieced her guts back together off of some cars we nicked down in Taos.”
I cringe at how casually he’s referencing grand theft. Mama McManus owns this pub, I know, but still—it’s one thing for everyone to know something, but quite another to say it out loud.
“Taos is a fucking gold mine,” Rory continues. He’s hardly paying attention to the game or the shots I’m indicating. Is he just enjoying hearing himself talk, or is he waiting to see if I’ll try to cheat him? “So many goddamned yuppie tourists just begging to get fleeced.”
“Mmhmm.” I make the most non-committal noise I can. I’m not about to indict myself—not with my parole officer lurking around every goddamned corner—but I need the McManuses too much to disagree. Once they vetted me, Mama paid off my grams’s long-overdue medical bills without batting an eye. “Sounds like a good time.”
God, but she grew up so gorgeous. As if I’d had any doubt. That silky dark hair, stubborn tilt to her chin, and then the nervous way she let her fingers dance across my skin—Fuck. Even in the darkest, loneliest nights in prison, I never imagined her quite like this.
“The yuppies, though . . .” Rory interrupts my thoughts of Elena with his smug tone. “They have their uses. Especially those spiritual vision quest types.” He easily sinks the three ball. “They act all high and mighty, but really, they just loooove to get high.”
Suddenly, I have a terrible feeling where this painful conversation is going.
“All right. Eight ball. Here we go.” Rory hunches over. Tests his angle a few times. Tests it again. I lean against my stick, trying my best to act casual. But I know what’s coming. I know what’s coming, and I know I have no fucking choice but to go along with it.
The eight ball misses the angle and rolls harmlessly to a stop in the middle of the table. Rory shudders again with rage and tosses his cue to the far corner. “Fucking cocksucker.” He picks up his beer and pounds it, then turns back to me, all smiles once more. “Your turn, man. You could clean up right now and win this.”
But I very much doubt that’s what’s about to happen.
“Twelve,” I say. “Side pocket.” I knock the twelve in, even though I can feel the tremor in my right arm. Old nerve damage from the crash. “Nine. Back left.” Miss. “Damn. All you, man.”
Rory chuckles to himself and gestures to the eight ball once more. This time it sinks in with no complaints. He straightens up and grabs his beer.
