Hook (Neverland Novels Book 2)

by Gina L. Maxwell

  I watch the fire grow and feed as it travels from one room to the next, lighting up each window like glowing orange dominoes. It’s not long before smoke is billowing from the windows and open door. A few minutes later, the building is engulfed in flames stretching high above the roof as they lick at the sky.

  The intense heat practically bakes my bare skin, but I’m rooted to the spot. Now I get why arsonists watch their fires. It’s fucking mesmerizing and perfect in its complexity. The power is obvious in its destruction, but also in its healing. Because as I stare at the raging inferno in front of me, I feel a cathartic peace quelling the rage inside of me. Not enough to fix what’s broken—nothing exists that can ever do that—but enough to satisfy a small part of that boy I saw in the mirror.

  Not much time passes before the distant sirens steadily grow louder until finally I’m engulfed in spinning colored lights and shouted commands. I don’t fight them when they grab my arms and roughly cuff my hands. I don’t struggle when they read me my rights and shove me into the back of a cruiser. And I don’t protest with my reasons and justifications for torching the school to the cop who slides behind the wheel.

  A judge doesn’t need to know why I did it to find me guilty.

  I know why…and so does Croc.

  As my cruiser starts to pull away from the scene, I find the devil himself glaring at me with bloodlust in his eyes. I don’t dare break eye contact first. I refuse to show him any sign of weakness. But once we’re on the highway, I blow out a breath and drop my head back on the seat. All I need is a break, a chance to regroup and maybe learn some things on the inside that can help me bring him down in the future. This move is about strategy as much as it is revenge and prevention.

  In the meantime, I won’t have to answer to Croc, won’t have to take his orders and carry out his dirty work. Won’t have to ignore those secret smirks that tell me he’s remembering things about our past that make me want to simultaneously vomit and rip out his fucking diseased heart with my bare hands.

  There’s no one who needs my protection right now. Smee will look out for Starkey; they’ve always been tight like brothers, too. For the first time in my life, I’ll only have myself to worry about. And since I’m not worth the trouble, that officially makes me a worry-free man.

  I’ll pay the price later, one way or another. Croc won’t let this go without finding a way to punish me for it. But there isn’t anything he can do to me that he hasn’t already done. So, whatever it is, I’ll survive it. I’ll survive him.

  It’s what I’ve always done. It’s what I’ll continue to do until I take him and his entire operation down. And maybe someday I won’t simply be surviving, I’ll actually be living.

  But I doubt it.

  Chapter One

  Hook

  Present Day

  Age 30

  London, North Carolina

  * * *

  Fuck, I hate the club scene.

  I’d rather choke down a glass of metal shavings than admit it to him, but I’d take the hyper-jovial atmosphere of Pan’s Friday festivities over going to a nightclub any day. Both settings are rowdy as hell, but the acres surrounding the house where the Lost Boys live is lit up with bonfires and tiki torches instead of strobe lights and lasers. The DJ’s playlist is hard rock and heavy metal, not this synthesized EDM shit. Most importantly, you have room to breathe and walk around without having to squeeze through a sweaty sea of people rubbing and grinding on each other like it’s mating season for the desperate. It’s fucking suffocating.

  But the clubs are where the young twentysomethings go to party, and by party, I mean get high. Especially on MDMA-based drugs. Ecstasy used to be the big thing in the early 2000s. When that went out of style, people started rolling on Molly. Now there's a new drug on the scene, engineered and manufactured by a team working for none other than Neverland's up-and-coming crime boss, Fred Croc.

  Fairy Dust.

  Looks like body glitter, feels like flying. That’s the pitch. It’s a more intense version of Molly with the added bonus of making the user sparkle under the club lights. They just swipe the ultra-fine powder onto their skin, and, less than a minute later, they’re flying high and getting all touchy-feely with everyone around them. Not my thing—no drugs are, thanks to Mommy dearest—but it’s only been on the market for a month, and the club kids can’t get enough of it, so business is booming.

  Tonight, I’ve set myself up in the VIP lounge at the Quarry, one of the hottest new dance clubs in London, North Carolina. I have three Pirates with me—Smee, Cecco, and Cookson—who are mingling and moving the product. I prefer to sit back and supervise, which is my right as captain. I might not have a choice about selling this shit, but at least I don’t have to do it myself.

  “Hey there.” A girl sits next to me on the couch where I’ve been nursing my beer, waiting for this job to be over so I can get the hell out of here and get back to my loft.

  “Hey, yourself,” I force myself to say. Sounding like a normal person who gives a shit about anything doesn’t come naturally to me. My instinct is more growl-and-glare than grin-and-gaze. But the surly shit scares off potential customers, so I’m trying to dial it back. For Starkey’s sake.

  “I’m Brandy. That hot redhead over there said you could help me out,” she says, pointing to the edge of the VIP area.

  I flick my eyes over to where Smee, my right-hand man, is standing. He shrugs and holds the sides of his leather jacket open, signaling he’s out. But as soon as she looks back at me, he smiles and gives me a wink, then disappears into the crowd.

  Fucking Smee. He's not out of Dust. He's sending her over as an offering. The Irish bastard doesn't think I get laid enough. Not that anyone does, compared to him. The man acts like he needs sex to survive instead of air. He enjoys fucking men just as much as women, and he's not shy about it, either. There's a constant parade of ass coming and going from his cabin. But Smee thinks my all-work-and-no-play rule needs bending, so sometimes, he tries to "help out" his captain by playing the role of pimp.

  Sometimes, I even let him think it works.

  But lately, every time I tap into my spank bank—my mental version of Viagra for when I fuck women—I don’t pull up memories of former hookups like usual. Instead, I’m picturing the dozens of filthy never-gonna-happen fantasies I have on a constant reel in my mind about one man in particular—a fucking cop, of all things. And as much as I hate this insane attraction to a man I want nothing to do with for multiple reasons, it refuses to go away, so I've learned to live with it. Eventually, I'll have to do something to scrub him from my mind, but I have more important things to worry about right now.

  “I like your ring,” Brandy purrs, touching the pewter skull ring on my right thumb.

  “Thanks.” I found it lying in the dirt the day I took back control of my life, so I kept it and it became the inspiration for the Pirates. It’s a reminder of who I am and why. It’s a symbol of my mission to end Croc’s reign in Neverland. To end his reign over me, and now my brother.

  “So, what do you say?” Brandy prods. “Can you help me?”

  I turn my full attention on the girl, getting my first good look at her. Time freezes as an image from the past superimposes over her for the briefest of moments. A young, black-haired beauty with a hint of desperation shining in her green eyes…

  Blinking the image away, I take a long pull on my beer. Yeah, no. Normally I can fake my interest in the fairer sex, but this girl reminds me of my mother. My very dead mother. Without knowing a thing about Brandy, a mix of resentment and pity for her burns in my chest. There’s no way I’m touching this girl, even to keep up appearances.

  I itch with the need to get out of here, but I have to stay focused. I have a job to do. My brother’s life depends on it. “You lookin’ for some wings, angel?”

  She glances around the roped-off area, but everyone around us is doing their own thing—drinking, laughing, dancing, taking selfies. The usual self-abso
rbed bullshit of a barely legal crowd. Brushing her long black hair behind her bare shoulder, she smiles coyly, batting her thick lashes at me. “I am. Wanna fly with me?”

  “Not tonight, babe. That’ll be fifty.”

  “Dollars?” she says, her eyes flaring wide. She’s young, probably around Starkey’s age, and I’m guessing she’s not well-versed in drug deals.

  “That’s the cost of admission. You want it or not?”

  She leans in and slides a hand over the zipper of my jeans. “Are there any other forms of payment you’d accept?”

  Keeping the bored expression on my face, I look her dead in the eyes. “Sorry, cash only.”

  She pouts, but I'm sure it's more about having to pay fifty bucks than missing out on a quick fuck with me in some darkened corner just to score her and her friends their high for the night. Once the cash is in my hand, I reach inside my jacket and pull out a small resealable bag filled with pearlescent powder. I tuck it into her palm, thinking she'll go to the bathroom to put it on, but apparently, excitement overrides her previous paranoia. She doesn't waste a second before dipping her fingers and painting her body with it. In a handful of seconds, her pupils will dilate, and she's liable to climb into my lap despite my earlier rejection.

  Except I’m not sticking around for the show. I saw enough of it the first nine years of my life to last me until I’m cold and dead. I don’t know if it’s the girl looking like my mom or all the pent-up sexual frustration riding me, but I need air. Right fucking now. Shoving to my feet, I stalk out of the VIP area and weave through the crowd until I finally get to the front entrance and escape outside to suck in the crisp January night.

  Firing off a quick text to Smee, I tell him to take over. I don't give him any explanation as to why I'm bailing. I don't have to. I'm his captain, and he never second-guesses me. It's been that way since we were kids at the school—the one I burned to the ground and did two years of a five-year sentence for arson. I'd still be serving my last year right now if I hadn't gotten out for good behavior. Not that my behavior was even remotely good in that place. No, I'd gotten out early for one reason and one reason only—because Croc wanted me out.

  Just like he wanted Starkey in.

  Now the only way for me to get Croc to let my brother out of prison is to sell this first batch of Fairy Dust. Doesn’t sound all that hard, but it takes a while to move a million dollars of powder.

  I light up a smoke, the crackling sound as I inhale and the sweet taste of the cloves coating my tongue both working to calm my nerves. I climb behind the wheel of my new blacked-out Challenger and focus on the hot shower and the book waiting for me back at my loft in Neverland. But fate has other plans for my evening. I’m only a couple of miles from the Quarry when a set of cherries lights up in my rearview.

  “Shit.” I briefly contemplate putting my foot to the floor and outrunning them. I know I could with what I’ve got under the hood, but by now, they already have my plates and info. If I bring attention down on the club—and by extension, Croc’s operation—I’m fucked.

  As I pull over and squint against the spotlight shining directly into my side mirror, practically blinding me, I realize that I’m not out of London city limits yet. That means that London PD’s finest is behind me. And the man I haven’t been able to get out of my head the past several months is a London cop. Fuck me.

  A man gets out of the cruiser and makes his way forward, but with that light behind him, I can’t see shit. My pulse kicks up a few notches, and I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.

  “Can you step out of the car, please, sir?”

  Not him.

  I release a heavy exhale and tell myself it’s relief washing over me, not disappointment. “What happened to ‘license and registration’?”

  “Sir, I’m not going to ask you again. Step out of the car,” he says, more forcefully this time.

  A shadow passes over me from the passenger side. So, the pig has a partner. Something’s off about this, but I don’t have much of a choice other than to do what they say. They have the upper hand, what with the guns and the badges they’re toting. I’m just a small-time criminal with no one to care if I disappear. Something I can’t let happen before I make things right for Starkey.

  “Sure thing, Officer.”

  Making sure they can see my hands at all times, I do as he says. As soon as I rise to my full six-foot-three height, the guy spins me around and pushes my chest against the car. I grind my teeth together, using every ounce of control I have to keep from turning and busting this motherfucker’s nose open with my fist. Just like I did to the Neverland cop who tried to keep me from Starkey the night he was arrested.

  Turning my head, I glare at him over my shoulder. “What the fuck is your problem, man?”

  “Shut up and hold still,” his partner says from the other side of my car, shining his flashlight in my face.

  The guy behind me starts patting me down. I don’t make a habit of carrying my gun on me, but—

  “Got a four-inch switchblade,” Handsy Cop says after retrieving it from my jeans’ pocket and flicking it open before setting it on the trunk of the car. I’m about to really start bitching when he reaches into my inside jacket pocket and comes up with several one-ounce baggies with the picture of a fairy on them. “What have we got here?”

  Goddamn it. This night just went all to hell. I can’t believe I forgot to stash them in the secure container under my seat before driving away from the club. Just goes to show how fucked up my head’s been lately. All because of him.

  "My niece asked me to sell some of her body glitter," I say calmly. "I think it's important to support our young entrepreneurs. You want some?"

  “Funny,” Bossy Cop snarls. “Let’s see how funny you are down at the station.”

  Handsy yanks my arms behind me and slaps the cuffs on my wrists tight enough that I wince. I’ve had plenty of jerk sessions that involved thinking about a cop and handcuffs, but not with this cop and I’m never the one wearing the cuffs. “James Hook, you’re under arrest for possession with intent to sell. You have the right to…”

  I tune out the rest of the Miranda rights as my head spins with what the hell is going on here. They never asked for my license, didn’t follow proper protocol. I never gave them my name. This wasn’t an ordinary bust. I was targeted. They probably would’ve hauled me in for possession of a deadly weapon or littering because I tossed my cigarette out the window had they not found the drugs. Because something tells me they were sent to bring me in no matter what. The question is, what the hell for?

  An hour later, I’m still sitting in an interrogation room at the London Police Department, chained to the plain white table and waiting for…who the fuck knows. No one’s giving me any goddamn answers, and it’s not helping my mood.

  “Hey!” I shout, staring at the one-way mirror. “The least you could do is give me my smokes while I rot in here for no fucking reason.”

  A minute later, the door to my left finally opens. A tall man with a muscular frame walks in wearing a pair of black cargo pants, a tight-fitting black polo, and a badge hanging on a metal chain around his neck. His head is bent as he looks at the files in his hand, but I don’t need to see his face to know who it is. It’s the bane of my existence and my biggest fantasy all rolled into one magnificent, irritating package.

  John fucking Darling.

  Chapter Two

  Hook

  The door closes behind him as John lifts his gaze to mine. If I wasn’t sitting already, there’s a good chance those honey-colored eyes would’ve knocked me on my ass for all the heat they’re throwing my way. I’m tempted to glance over at the one-way mirror as though I could see who’s witnessing this potentially damning interaction, depending on how good they are at reading body language. But I hold fast and concentrate on schooling my features. I’m an expert on showing people what I want them to see. This won’t be any different.

  He tosses a pack of Marlboros ont
o the table, and I curl my lip. “What the hell are those for?”

  His brows draw together. “You said you wanted to smoke, so I got these from one of the officers.”

  “I want my smokes. The Djarum Black clove cigarillos that were confiscated with everything else when I was brought in.”

  “You used to smoke Marb Reds,” he counters.

  “Yeah, when I was a kid. I’ve learned to appreciate the finer things in life since then. I’m sure a rich boy like you can appreciate that.”

  “I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.” He turns to the mirror and makes a round-’em-up signal with his finger. “Someone will be in shortly with your smokes.”

  “Gee, thanks. It almost makes up for forcing me to sit here for an hour to stare at my reflection. What’s with the casual attire? Your polyester uniform at the cleaners?” I droll, leaning back against the uncomfortable metal chair.

  “I’m on a Joint Task Force with the FBI. More comfortable uniforms are one of the perks.”

  I don’t even bother hiding my shock this time. “No shit,” I say. “You’re a G-man now?”

  “No, not technically. I’m still London PD, but I’m also deputized as a federal agent. Being a task force officer allows me to operate under the same parameters as the FBI and occasionally work with them on local area cases.”

  “Not sure if I should be impressed or even more disgusted, Darling.”

  His eyes narrow slightly as he sits across from me, but his back is to the mirror, so I’m the only one who sees it. “As I’ve told you before, you can call me John.”

  Yeah, he did tell me that before. A couple of months ago at the beach when I had him shoved up against a brick wall after he offered to help get Starkey out of prison. Help I promptly refused, because it’ll be a cold day in hell when I trust a cop.