by Megyn Ward
Tobias
The Kings of Brighton Book: 1
Megyn Ward
Ardor Press
Contents
Also by Megyn Ward
Prologue
1. Silver
2. Tobias
3. Silver
4. Tobias
5. Silver
6. Tobias
7. Silver
8. Tobias
9. Silver
10. Tobias
11. Boston, Massachusetts, 2018
12. Tobias
13. Silver
14. Tobias
15. Silver
16. Tobias
17. Silver
18. Tobias
19. Silver
20. Tobias
21. Silver
22. Tobias
23. Silver
24. Tobias
25. Silver
26. Tobias
27. Silver
28. Tobias
29. Silver
30. Tobias
31. Silver
32. Tobias
33. Silver
34. Tobias
35. Silver
36. Tobias
37. Silver
38. Tobias
39. Silver
40. Tobias
41. Silver
42. Tobias
43. Silver
44. Tobias
45. Silver
Epilogue
46. Patrick
47. Cari
48. Patrick
The Kings of Brighton: Tobias © 2018 by Megyn Ward. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner, whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from the author, except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
FIRST EDITION 2018
Book design by Megyn Ward
Cover design by Megyn Ward
Cover photo by Adobestock
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Also by Megyn Ward
The Gilroy Clan
Pushing Patrick
Claiming Cari
Having Henley
Conquering Conner
Destroying Declan
(coming in October 2018)
Taming Tesla
(coming December 2018)
City Nights
Drive
Grind
With Shanen Black
Paradise Lost
Diving Deep
Hard Dive
Tidal Wave
(coming September 2018)
Prologue
Tobias
Brighton Home for Boys
Brighton, Massachusetts
2001
I’m awake the second his hand lands on my shoulder, and even though I know it’s him, my hand snaps out of its own volition and snatches the front of his cheap white T-shirt.
“What?” I say, that one word, both question, and threat. Because, even though I know who it is, I have a hard time keeping my aggression in check.
I always have, for as long as I can remember.
Unfazed, Jase stands over me, hand still planted on my shoulder, his mouth set in a grim line. Beyond him, I can hear sniffles and sobs, muted by the press of a pillow, coming from somewhere inside the dorm.
“Fish’s cryin’, Tob.” He says it quietly, his words barely more than breath. He looks worried. As if to prove it, he shoots a look over his shoulder, giving the dimly-lit dormitory a quick assessment.
Jase has always been tender. Too tender for a place like this. He does a good job of hiding it under his asshole smirk and who gives a fuck shrug. He’s an expert at playing tough which is good because he’s also beautiful—almost too beautiful to be real—with the kind of blond, angelic looks that spells disaster in a place like this. Makes you a target. He’s been here going on five years now, off and on, and the only thing keeping him safe in this hellhole is his tough guy swagger and the fact that he’s my brother.
Not my real brother. As far as I know, I don’t have any of those but in a place like Brighton, you take what you can get. Besides, as far I’m concerned a real brother wouldn’t be any better than the ones this place has given me.
Jase and Gray are the only people I care about. Everyone else can get fucked. Especially the pissing-in-his-pants little crybaby fish, balling his head off right now.
He must see it on my face, the fact that I’m going to shove his hand away so I can roll over and go back to sleep because his fingers shape themselves around my shoulder, refusing to be shaken off. “You remember what being a fish was like, don’t you?”
No, I don’t. Because when I got here, I was barely seven years old and practically catatonic from watching cancer eat my mom, from the inside out, until she was nothing but a withered husk in a charity ward hospital bed.
There’s reproach in his tone like my inaction disappoints him somehow. In the dark, more sounds join the muffled crying.
Murmurers and whispers.
Plans being made.
“… I say we just take him into the shower room. Give him a proper welcome. Ain’t no one gonna do nothin’. Staff don’t come in to check for another twenty minutes. That’s plenty of time…”
Victor and his minions.
“Tob.” The impossible blue of Jase’s eyes flare at me in the dark. Urging me to do something. Stop what’s about to happen before it’s too late. Because I’m the only one who can.
“Fine,” I hiss, shoving his hand off my shoulder so I can sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the stiff, institutional mattress under me. “You’re giving me your chocolate milk at lunch tomorrow, fucker.” When I say it, Jase just grins at me. He knows I don’t mean it. I won’t take his food, and I’d break the hand of anyone else who tried. “Get Gray,” I say, pushing past him. “Meet me in the shower room.”
We split off at the end of my bed. Jase goes left, toward the front of the dorm while I hang a right, moving deeper into the room. Seeing me coming up the center aisle, the whispers and plans dry up with the kind of instant choke that makes me smile. There’s no one in this shithole who wants to mess with me. Not even the big, nasty bastards making plans to catch themselves a fish.
I can feel them glaring at me from their huddle in the dark. I want to stop. Lunge into the black and grab one of them—doesn’t matter which one—and get to work, until my knuckles are bloody and their bones are broken. Until the screaming starts and overhead lights flood the dorm and staff are hauling me off to timeout.
Can’t risk it, though. Last time I caught TO, I was gone for three days. When I got back, Jase was in the hospital wing and didn’t make eye contact for over a month. He still won’t talk about what happened while I was gone. The way he woke me up to save the fish, his eyes wide and wounded, gives me a pretty good idea.
No, I can’t risk it. Jase and Gray need me. So, I don’t stop, I don’t even look. I just keep going until I get to the T at the end of the aisle. Sobs are coming from the right, near the shower room.
Lazy-ass staff. They know better than to put a fish so close to one of the only two rooms in this place that offers privacy. Yeah, they know better. They just don’t care.
Stopping at the foot of the crybaby’s bed I take a deep breath. Letting it out slow, I debate on if it’d be better just to wait for Gray. He’s better at this stuff. He flashes you his pearly whites and I don’t care who you are,
you instantly feel better.
Like he senses me standing here, the fish starts crying louder until the kids on either side of him start grumbling at him to shut the hell up.
“Hey, Fish,” I say, my voice a harsh whisper that cuts through the blubbering. “You gotta stop crying.”
Doesn’t work. He just bawls louder.
I can feel Victor and his crew eyeballing me from behind. Watching. Waiting to see what I’m gonna do.
Shit.
Lunging toward the head of the bed, I jerk the pillow off the crybaby’s face. “Shut-up,” I hiss loudly, snatching him by his arm. I’ve got to get him out of here and somewhere quiet so I can calm him down without an audience.
Hauling him out of bed, I can feel how frail he is. My hand circles his bicep, finger and thumb meeting without issue. It’s like I’m dragging a skeleton around.
Despite his obvious weakness and the fact that he’s not going to fight me off—not on his best day and me scraping rock-bottom—he takes a swing that catches me in the ear and stings like a bitch.
I hear snickers coming out of the dark.
Because I have a reputation to uphold—and it’s that reputation that keeps my brothers safe—I give the kid a rough shake. Shoving him into the wall next to the shower room door, I hold him there while I test it. It’s supposed to be locked but it swings right open.
I’ll say it again—lazy-ass staff.
I toss him inside and follow, pulling the door closed behind us both. Ground lights come in through the room’s high-set windows, giving me my first good look at him. He’s tall—taller than I thought—but just as skinny as his first impression implied. A shock of inky black hair, standing up, crazy all over his head. Face washed pale by the moon, his eyes like two pin holes, shining bright in the white of his features. Frail chest heaving with unspent sobs. Hands knotted into fists, prepared to fight. Even when he knows he’ll lose.
“Listen up, Fish,” I say, keeping my tone conversational. “You—”
“Name’s… not… fish… asshole,” he says, shoving his words at me in between heaves.
I laugh. I can’t help it.
“Alright,” I say, nodding my head. “What’s your name then?”
Fish just stands there and stares, fists raised like he’s waiting for me to stop talking and square up. When he doesn’t answer, I try again. “You don’t want me to call you Fish, you’re gonna have to tell me your name.”
More standing. More staring.
Behind me, the door pushes open. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Jase and Gray. They’re the only people in this place who don’t make me itch, having them at my back.
“Lock the door,” I say and I’m instantly rewarded by the sound of the lock clicking home. Can’t risk turning on the overheads because of the windows. There’s a pair of security guards that patrol the grounds, one of which who likes to stand under said windows and chain smoke cigarettes instead of doing his job.
Assuming the worst, Fish lifts his fists higher. What he lacks in strength and technique, he makes up for in enthusiasm and not much else. I can feel Jase eyeballing me, urging me to try again.
“I’m Tobias,” I tell him, nodding to my left. “One on the end is Gray.” I watch Gray raise his hand in greeting in my peripheral. “Ugly fucker in the middle is Jase.”
“Tob here’s just jealous ‘cause I’m so pretty.” I can hear the grin in Jase’s voice.
The four of us stand there in the half-light, my brothers and I staring at this kid, waiting for him to either give in or start swinging. “Look, we're trying to help you, Fish. Just tell us your—”
“Logan.” All of a sudden, the kid drops his fists, the balls of them banging into his stick-thin thighs. “My name is Logan.”
“Where are your parents?” It’s not a question I usually ask because usually I don’t care. Most kids in this place have them, somewhere. They’re either locked up or in rehab. Some are from good families but here on a court-order because they’ve been labeled as incorrigible by some judge or in Victor’s case, downright psychotic. There are only a few like me. Kids who don’t have anyone at all.
“Dead.”
Gray shifts on his bare feet. Jase’s shoulders sag just a little.
Dead.
Yeah.
We all know what that’s like. I don’t ask how. It doesn’t matter. Dead is dead. Dead means gone and no matter what the therapists say, talking about things like how and why doesn’t help.
“Family?” This comes from Gray. The way he says it, he sounds almost hopeful.
Logan shakes his head. “I don’t have anyone.”
I can feel my brothers watching me. Staring at me. Urging me to say it. Make things even a little bit right for this kid. Because dead is dead. Dead means gone and we all know what it’s like to be alone.
“Sure, you do,” I say, extending my hand into the space between us. “You’ve got us now. We’re the Kings of Brighton.”
Logan hesitates for less than a breath before he reaches for my hand and takes it.
1
Silver
New York, New York, 2013
“Don’t be such a grandma, Silver.” My friend, Jane pulls a face at me, one that’s half exasperated, half hopeful, like maybe she can shame me into a night of debauchery.
“I’m not a grandma,” I counter, without bothering to look at her, focused on the television in front of me.
“It’s your birthday.” She says it like I have dementia and it’s her job to remind me.
“Right. It’s my birthday.” I frown up at her when she purposely steps in front of the television. “I should be able to spend it how I want.”
“You’ll never turn twenty-one again.” This from my half-sister, Delilah. “I refuse to let you sit here and waste the best years of your life, wearing…” She wrinkles her nose at me, her gaze drifting down my legs. “Sweatpants, watching Pretty Woman for the millionth time, and eating pizza-rolls.”
“It’s a good movie.” I have no defense for the sweats and the junk food.
Delilah rolls her eyes at me. “Do you know what Dad would do if he knew you ate stuff like that?”
Yes, I do. Our father, Davino Fiorella is the most celebrated chef in history. He makes Ramsey and Robuchon look like Laurel & Hardy. Food is his religion. Its creation his worship. If he knew I own a microwave, let alone used it to commit sacrilege via pizza rolls and frozen burritos, he’d disown me.
“First of all,” I say, stuffing a pizza roll in my mouth, “Are you even old enough to get into Level?” I shake my head while chewing. “You’re, like seventeen.”
“I’m nineteen,” she says, planting a hand on her hip. “And I’ve been on the VIP list at Level since I was seventeen.”
Such is life when you’re New York royalty.
Her mother is hotel heiress, Astrid Hawthorne, or as I like to call her, wife #5. My mom was #4.
“Second—” I shake my head. “it’s not even my birthday yet.”
My sister grins at me. “It will be by the time we get you dressed and out the door.”
Shooting Delilah a bland look, I turn my attention on Jane. “You’re contributing to the delinquency of a minor, you know that, right?”
“You’re kidding?” Jane all but laughs in my face. “Have you met your sister?” She gives me her best Vanna White, framing Delilah between her hands. Barely-there mini skirt. Top so small I have bras that are bigger. “This kid could show me a thing or two about delinquency.”
“That’s beside the—” My argument is suddenly cut off by a flash of blinding light. A camera flash. Right in my face. I look at my sister. “What the hell?”
Delilah lowers her cell and taps the screen. “Go get dressed or I’m sending it to Dad,” she says without even bothering to look at me.
I look at the litter of frozen burrito wrappers and scattered pizza rolls and feel my eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t.”
“Are you kidding?” she
says, her perfectly shaped eyebrows shoot up on her forehead. “The opportunity to knock Princess Silver down a peg or two in Daddy Dearest’s eyes?” Something flickers across her face. It looks a lot like resentment. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Okay.” I stand up, brushing pizza roll crumbs off my hands on the seat of my sweats. It’s not the fear of her outing me and my fake food addiction that gets me to agree. It’s guilt. My father has eleven children, split between five wives. I am the only child he fathered with my mother and I am his favorite. We all know it and he’s made no attempt to deny it. I think it’s because I’m the only one of us he actually had a hand in raising. My mother couldn’t be bothered with something as mundane as motherhood, with or without an army of nannies. “I’ll go.”
“Great!” Delilah says, threats and resentment forgotten. “Put this on,” she says, picking up the shopping bag she dropped at her feet when she and Jane came in.
It’s not a request.
I take the bag and head to my room.
Dumping its contents out on my bed I stare at it while contemplating just jumping out the window and ending it all. It would be an easier, quicker death than the slow torture Delilah obviously has planned for me.
I rush back into the living room. Jane and Delilah are sitting on the couch. Eating pizza rolls and watching Pretty Woman.
