by Jc Emery
I am so done with bikers.
So done.
The ride home is short, and Ian helps me disengage the alarm. My Bug is still in the drive. Maybe Dad won’t know I was there after all. Ian’s taken notice of my sullen mood, and just before he closes the front door on me, he says, “You’re better than that shit. Remember that. You deserve good, so don’t settle for fucked up.”
He leans in and places a kiss to my cheek and then strides away. I close my eyes and shut the door, not even worried that I’m going to wake Grandma up. It takes everything in me to climb the stairs to my room. I fall into my bed, shove my face in my pillow, and sob uncontrollably for the next hour. The only reason I think I’m able to stop myself from crying and have the good sense to clean myself up and wash away the evidence of sneaking out is because of the words that won’t stop ringing in my head.
You deserve good, so don’t settle for fucked up.
Just as I’m drifting off to sleep, I manage to send Ian a quick text. THANK YOU.
CHAPTER 13
January
15 months to Mancuso’s downfall
My left arm curls around my notebook, and my right furiously scribbles a messy stick-figure drawing of Jeremy being beaten by a hammer. Drawing-Jeremy is tucked in the corner of the page, surrounded by a carefully constructed code I created in order to try to piece together the mystery of Mindy’s rape without fear that someone will find it. Drawing-Jeremy is almost finished as I detail the blood oozing from his head. In the other corner of the page, Drawing-Daniel has been beheaded and is missing his right hand.
I may or may not be in a bad mood.
Everything is hectic and upside down right now. I barely know which direction I’m turning in anymore. Between avoiding Jeremy like the plague—because holy crap, I’m a chicken—to digging up every tiny piece of information on Mindy’s attacker that I can, I’m worn out. If things had gone well on our date, I was going to try to pry a little into finding out what Jeremy knows about the whole thing. But things didn’t go so well. On top of the ill-timed text from Daniel, that disaster after-date incident cemented our first date into the history books as our last. Not that the public blow job didn’t make everything even worse.
Only, I hate the idea of that date being our last. Even despite the blow job. I’m so pathetic. I don’t want to let him go. I really don’t, and I can’t figure out why. I don’t want to like him, but there’s just something there that has me in knots over what happened. Holly told me once to be careful because every girl marries a guy like her dad, and by her estimation, Jeremy shares more than just a cut with Grouchy. Maybe she’s right, because I can see the protective side of Jeremy that I’ve come to expect with my dad. I see his playfulness, and even his bossiness isn’t a turnoff. I’d never admit it, but I secretly love it when a guy goes alpha on me. Unfortunately, Jeremy’s sidestepped alpha and rushed right into dirtbag.
I was hoping to be able to confide in Jeremy about my investigation. It’s come to a standstill, and without a little more intel on the situation, I’m kind of stuck. I thought I’d hit the jackpot when I found Dad’s manila folder full of hospital records in the garage, but that turned out to be my last solid lead. Even trying to look into this Scavo character has me banging my head against the wall.
Thanks to Google and the general public’s fascination with the Italian Mafia, I was able to stumble upon a few things that might be of help. Maybe I’m not a detective down in my bones, because it took a few days of research to figure out that I was going about everything all wrong. I have been looking into Carlo Mancuso’s thug roster to no avail. The only information I could find was on guys who had been pinched or who’d been “taken care of.” No Scavo to find. Anywhere.
Eventually it occurred to me that I had no information on this guy—not even a first name—but I do have a lot of information on one person who is deeply connected to the Mancuso organization. Alex.
Now she has a pretty long internet trail. I was able to find bits and pieces on her life, including some rather disturbing candid photographs that were taken while she was out and about with various people. There’s research and then there’s stalking. I tried to avoid those sites as much as possible. Nothing good turned up at first. A few mafia fansites led me to newspaper reports from the day her cousin was shot. Dad would rather I not know, but I’m fully aware of why Alex is here and that the club has put their lives on the line to keep her safe. I even know why Dad doesn’t want her here, but I keep that to myself to avoid a fight. The problem is that Dad hasn’t let me go over to Aunt Ruby’s house since Alex came to town. But that’s just fine. I have a plan. Only, I have to wait until the bell rings to get the hell out of this classroom for good.
“Miss Grady,” Mrs. Cowger says from the front of the room. Letting out a heavy sigh, I set down my pen and raise my head. Mrs. Cowger is an okay teacher. I mean, she tries. I just don’t really care about Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet were morons.
She raises an eyebrow and points at my notebook. “Miss Grady, I’d like your attention on me rather than your desk.”
“No offense, Mrs. Cowger,” I say. “I just don’t have the energy for this crap.”
The words leave my mouth, and I’m not entirely certain what I’ve just done. Half the room either gasps or snickers. My eyes shoot to Tracie, who sits across the room from me. She shakes her head and mouths with a grin, “Bitch.”
When we’ve managed to end up in the same class, our teachers have refused to seat us together. It’s my last day here anyway, so it shouldn’t matter. All my extracurricular investigations have taken away from the time I’m supposed to be in class. With over thirty unexcused absences—ten this semester alone—not even Holly can save my ass. Which is fine. We’re only a month into the new semester, so I have no way of making that time up. Nor do I want to. The sooner I get out of this place, the sooner I can figure out where I’m going next. First my GED and then eventually culinary school in the city. Dad’s pissed as hell that I’m basically being expelled less than a full semester before graduation, but I’m pissed as hell at life in general. We’ll deal.
“I think you should visit Mr. Beck’s office, Miss Grady,” she says in response.
“Good idea.” I smile and happily pack up my stuff. Fuck Mr. Beck. He and Holly already arranged for today to be my last day. What’s he going to do? Expel me? Mr. Beck and Dad already reached the agreement that in exchange for not expelling me that I would leave of my own accord.
Across the room, Tracie is just staring at me in astonishment. Drawing-Jeremy and Drawing-Daniel get shoved into my backpack, and I stride out of class without looking back. I wish I were badass enough to flip her the bird on the way out, but as it is, I’m already a train wreck of nerves. My hands begin to shake the moment the classroom door closes behind me. There’s only ten or so minutes of class left, but it’s enough to get to the office to tell Holly that I’ve been unceremoniously excused early. She is not going to like this.
But really, I was blowing this Popsicle stand anyway. Still, I’m going to be in for it when I get home. I don’t know why they’re going to care. I just know that they will. Parents are strange creatures who give a shit about the dumbest stuff. I can’t even begin to think about Grandma. She is going to tan my hide—that is if she’s even home. She’s been curiously busy and absent from the house lately. I don’t like it one bit.
The office door feels heavier when I open it, and the air feels stuffy when I walk up to Holly’s desk. She is smiling down at her phone in her hands and so engrossed in whatever she’s reading that she doesn’t hear my approach. God, I hope she and Dad aren’t sexting again. After the last time, I won’t be peeking at either of their phones anytime soon.
“Please tell me you’re in a good mood,” I say with my best innocent smile plastered on my face.
Her head shoots up as her eyes land on me. She places her phone upside down on her desk and clears her throat. Her cheeks are red, and her breathi
ng is a little shaky. Yeah, sexting. Christ, that’s freaking gross.
“Hey,” she says with a smile. Her eyes slide over to the wall clock and then back to me. They’re narrowed now, and she’s looking back at me.
“You’re supposed to be in class,” she says in that “mom” voice she’s been using a lot lately. I swear, she’s picking up this “mom” shit so quick it’s starting to freak me out. But I also kind of like it. A lot. For only a few months under her belt, she’s picking it up pretty quick.
“Yeah,” I say. “About that. Mrs. Cowger let me go early.”
“Let you go or kicked you out?”
I shrug my shoulders and look over at Margot, who’s pretending not to listen in. “It could have gone either way.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, pulling open her desk drawer. She takes out two pieces of individually wrapped chocolates and tosses one to me. I easily catch it in the air, unwrap it, and pop it in my mouth. She lets out a happy sigh and then looks at me again. “Fine. You were leaving today anyway.”
“That was my point,” I say. “She didn’t get that. Why do I care what Romeo and Juliet did? They killed themselves? Okay, fine. Why is she even teaching us about a story that glorifies suicide? It’s not romantic—it’s stupid.”
“Holy crap, what is your problem?” she asks with wide eyes.
“I’m just saying. We have classes on suicide prevention, and then we’re reading this junk about these children who kill themselves when they only wanted each other because they couldn’t be together anyway.”
“Chey,” Holly whispers. She pats her desk and leans in close to me. “Let’s have a talk.”
“I don’t want to have a talk.” I fold my arms over my chest.
She stands from her desk, circles round, and takes my elbow in her hand. I allow her to lead me away from the center of the room and into the nearby bathroom. She locks the door behind us.
“I’m not your mother,” she says in a firm voice. My head snaps in her direction as her words cut at my heart. I know she’s not my mother, but for some reason, her verbalizing it only makes everything that much worse. “But I love you.”
“Yeah, love you, too, Holls,” I say and tap my foot on the floor. My tone is biting, and I can’t stop myself from huffing. If I do, I might cry.
“I wish I were your mother,” she whispers.
Crap. She’s doing that loving thing again, and it’s going to make me cry. I don’t want to cry, though. I want to kick something. I want to throw something. I want to hit Jeremy with a hammer. Repeatedly.
“Shut up,” I mumble. My eyes are focused on the floor as they well with tears.
“No,” she says sweetly and takes a step forward. “I do. You’re awesome, and I hate seeing you so upset. I wish I knew you better so I could do more to help.”
“You should be used to grouchy Gradys by now,” I say with a pathetic laugh at the end.
It’s been almost a month since Jeremy’s birthday party. I might be able to get over everything that happened if he would just leave me alone. But he won’t. He shows up at the house with bullshit excuses but then ignores me. He keeps taking over for Diesel, picking me up from school, and pretends like he hates it with all his being, but then Diesel tells me otherwise. I try to keep my interaction with Diesel limited as he keeps asking pesky questions about the party. I don’t dare, but I really want to tell him it’s none of his business. And really, I feel like such a stupid baby for thinking the stories I’d heard about the legendary Forsaken parties were exaggerated. Dad always kept me away from anything that wasn’t PG-13, so how was I supposed to know?
“There’s grouchy Gradys, and then there’s depressed Gradys, and you, missy, are depressed.” She takes another step forward. She’s less than two feet away when she reaches out for me.
“I’m not depressed. I’m just... done,” I say, barely able to find the right word for it.
“Ruby told me,” she says even quieter. The mention of Aunt Ruby makes me feel about two inches tall. Everything in me feels hollow, like all my insides have been carved out. “You shouldn’t have seen that. Any of it.”
“I didn’t see anything.” I wince at the memory of Chel and her nasty ass and those panties with the slit up the center.
“You don’t have to lie to me,” she says softly.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She nods her head, then takes another step forward and sweeps me into her arms. She hugs me tight and doesn’t let go. Eventually I sink into her and rest my head on her shoulder. I don’t move to hug her back. I don’t feel like I can give anything to anyone right now, but I need this hug. I need her kind words and her soothing voice. I just need Holly.
When she’s content that I’m not going to talk any more about it, she lets me go and kisses my forehead. The words and the hug I can handle, but it’s the motherly kiss to my forehead that sends a few sneaky tears down my cheeks. I stop myself quickly, though, and regain my composure. I’m not crying over Jeremy or even Daniel. I’m not even crying over my own mother who is gone. I’m crying because I’m terrified Dad is going to screw things up and I’m going to lose her. Because he’s Forsaken, and they’re all really good at screwing up relationships.
“Who’s picking you up today?” she asks as we leave the bathroom.
I shift the weight of my backpack on my shoulder. “Diesel.” At least it’s supposed to be Diesel, so here’s hoping Jeremy doesn’t show instead.
“Good.” At her desk, she retrieves another two pieces of chocolate and hands them both to me. “Nothing fixes a broken heart like chocolate and revenge, but you’re in enough trouble, so let’s stick with the chocolate, shall we?”
I smile at her and give her a wink. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve moved on from Jeremy.”
Her eyes narrow as she surveys me. I’m lying, of course. I wish I were over Jeremy, but I can’t help myself. I clear my throat and nod my head, tossing a piece of chocolate in my mouth. “I have my eye on a new man.”
“Tell me or I’ll read your diary,” she says with a stupid giggle.
It’s not that I don’t love Holly. I do. It’s just that nothing makes me feel better than to torture someone else. I guess I really am my father’s daughter after all.
“Ian,” I say with a musical laugh and practically skip out of the office. Her face falls as she grabs her phone and starts typing furiously. She’s telling Dad, and he’s going to crap himself. I know Ian has damage, and a small part of me feels kind of bad about using that to scare them. I scrub my face with my hands in frustration. Once the door closes behind me, I’m back to feeling like crap. But at least now I no longer want to stick my head in the oven.
The hallway is crowded now since classes have just ended. Students scatter from one end to the other, desperately trying to escape school property in favor of some place more appealing—so basically, anywhere. I almost want to tell them to just stop showing up and eventually you’ll get out. One way or another, you’ll get out.
I head toward the parking lot, my eyes scanning the crowd for Tracie. She should be around here somewhere. When I see her high ponytail bobbing through the crowd, I give her a wave and wiggle through the students to get to her.
“You are such a crazy bitch,” she says with a huge smile on her face. “I so can’t believe you did that.”
“Neither can I.” We start heading for the parking lot side by side.
“You’ve been off for a while now, babe,” she says.
I don’t respond. She’s been hinting at this conversation for a while now, and I guess if both my best friend and Holly are bugging me about my attitude, I should probably do something to straighten myself out. The only thing worse than being crabby is everybody pointing out how crabby you are.
I’ve asked Dad why Jeremy keeps coming around but only get grunts and looks of disapproval. Dad doesn’t know that Jeremy came by after he dropped me off after our date, and I hope Aunt Ruby and Holly have both kept th
eir mouths shut and not told Dad I was at the party. If he knew about either of those things, he’d have a total conniption fit.
“When can we go back to everything being normal?” Tracie asks. She’s started to get annoyed with the fact that I’m making a point to let everybody know how grouchy I am. Jeremy dropped out of school the day after he turned eighteen, saying, in his own words, “Nic can’t twist my balls about it anymore.”
“When everything does go back to normal,” I say. The bitterness in my tone is unmistakable—and, unfortunately, becoming common.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “And what exactly is normal?”
She has a point, even if I don’t want to admit it.
“Six months ago—that was normal.”
“Oh yeah, because your new mommy wouldn’t be here,” she says. “I know you don’t want that. So I guess you’re going to have to figure out how to deal with the new normal.”
“You’re supposed to be a stupid bimbo,” I whine. Because she’s right. And I hate that.
“Sorry, this bimbo has brains,” she says and pushes my head away. “Is it possible you’re being a little dramatic about the party?”
Is it possible? Sure, it is possible. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. The fact that Tracie is asking me if I think I’m being dramatic tells me one thing—she likes Jeremy. She’s been defending him and the cocksucking queen for weeks now. This is how it has always been with us. When we were kids, if Tracie had a toy, I wanted it. If I had a new bike, she wanted a new bike. It was all fun when there were enough Ken dolls to go around, but now it’s becoming a problem. I admit to having developed a brief crush on the first baseman of the high school’s baseball team back when Tracie liked him, but it was fleeting. He’s a nice guy and all—he just doesn’t do it for me.
No, I’m an idiot who falls for men in worn leather who have sex in public places.
