Hook (Neverland Novels Book 2)

by Gina L. Maxwell

  I could probably spend hours studying all the intricate details of his tattoos and never get bored, but if I don’t do my job and convince him to go along with this plan, there’s a chance I won’t even get to look at them from a distance because Hook won’t let me anywhere near him again if I blow this.

  “I disagree,” I say, trying not to notice the way his eyes burn with blue fire and wondering if they’d look the same in a moment of passion. We have an audience behind that mirror, and I’d do well to remember that. “I could give you dozens of examples off the top of my head where an undercover agent successfully infiltrated a large criminal operation, gathered enough evidence to break the case wide open, and brought justice to those responsible.”

  James claps his hands together a few times in mock applause. “Nice try, Darling, but you’re gonna have to do better than that. Maybe you should let one of the seasoned guys talk to me while you go work on your pitch.”

  Damn him. He keeps using my last name on purpose, trying to get under my skin. It’s working. He hates his first name—I still have no idea why—and I’ve never been fond of my last name. It’s the opposite of manly. Growing up, other kids teased me all the time, insinuating that I was as much of a sissy as my name implied. After I became a cop, I hated the smirks or outright laughs every time I introduced myself as Officer Darling, so I switched it out for Officer John. Unfortunately, my new bosses don’t let me play fast and loose with my name, so back to Darling it is. But it doesn’t matter as much, because as soon as people find out I’m working with the FBI, they forget about everything else. It’s the power of the acronym.

  But I hate it even more when James uses my last name. He does it to put distance between us, to reinforce all the ways we’re different. Throwing the “special name” idea in my face from the first time we met was a defense mechanism. James, like anyone chained to a table in an interrogation room, is essentially a wild animal backed into a corner, so he’s using everything he can think of to get the upper hand. He intended to throw me off my game.

  He did.

  I didn’t think he remembered that night. He never once called me Johnathan after that, not in the three years we were around each other before he moved out of the school. If you want to get technical, he didn’t call me anything since he made it a point not to speak to me, no matter how hard I tried to get his attention.

  In the beginning, it was a case of hero worship, plain and simple, but by the time I was thirteen, hero worship had morphed into a serious crush. His aloofness and utter disregard for anyone around him drew me in, but the dark secrets lurking in his eyes—secrets I wanted to uncover and eradicate for him—are what held my attention long after he seemingly disappeared into thin air.

  But he also made a mistake when he brought that little detail up from our past. Because now I know that I wasn’t quite as inconsequential to him when we were younger as I once thought. And I already know that he’s not immune to me now. I can still feel the way his erection pressed against my ass when he pinned me against that wall at the beach the night my sister got engaged to Peter.

  I’d suspected James was gay—or at the very least, bi—but it wasn’t until that moment I knew for sure. Even better, there’s a part of him—a very large part from the way it felt—that’s attracted to me, whether he wants to admit it or not. And I’m not above using that to my advantage if that’s what it takes. But sexual chemistry isn’t the only bargaining chip I have.

  “Okay, I can do better than that,” I say. “You’re right. After all, you’re a hardened criminal without a conscience or moral code, so why would you cooperate with us for the sole reason of helping out your fellow man?” That’s all a bunch of shit he couldn’t convince me of if he tried, but it’s what he wants people to think, so I’ll play into it. “What if I told you that we’re also aware that most of the Neverland Police Department is in Croc’s back pocket and bringing him down means we break the NPD corruption, which means anyone being unlawfully held will be set free.”

  I grab the eight-by-ten mug shot of a young man—twenty-two years old with pale skin, white hair, brown eyebrows, and silver-blue eyes—and drop it on the table in front of James. The boy doesn’t look like his normal handsome self with the two black eyes, swollen cheek, and busted lip, but his unique coloring is enough to make out his identity.

  James swallows and pulls the picture closer. “Starkey,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. His hands curl into fists, and his eyes shoot up to nail me with misplaced accusations. “What the fuck happened to him? He was perfectly fine when they put him in the back of that cop car.”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I’m guessing they roughed him up at the station. They booked him for possession of ten grams of methamphetamine. That’s a felony that carries a minimum of five years.”

  James bolts to his feet, the chair flying backward and slamming against the wall. “That’s fucking bullshit! He didn’t have any drugs on him. Croc didn’t supply us with Dust until after Starkey’s arrest, and that kid wouldn’t know what to do with anything stronger than weed.”

  I hold my hands up in supplication. “I believe you, but it’s not hard for them to pull shit out of the evidence room and claim they found it on him, especially since the people who would normally question things are likely in on the false arrest.”

  James brings his fists down on the table, the sound bouncing off the walls of the small room. He’s in a volatile state right now, which works in my favor professionally, but on a personal level, I hate seeing him like this.

  “Let me outta here, and I’ll go kill that piece of shit myself. I should’ve done it a long time ago.”

  Fuck. I’m trying to get him out of this with minimal jail time, but threatening homicide isn’t going to help me convince the higher-ups to give him a deal for his cooperation. Walking over to the corner, I turn off the audio for the room. My boss probably won’t be happy about it, but I told him there was a chance I’d do it as a trust tactic. What I didn’t tell him was that I one hundred percent planned on doing it at some point in the interview. Some things just don’t need to be heard by outsiders.

  “Audio is off, but they’re still watching,” I say, turning my back on our spectators and walking over to set his chair back to rights behind him. “Listen, Hook, I get it. You want to save your guy who’s been thrown to the wolves in what I’m guessing is a ploy to control you. You’re pissed as hell and ready to burn the world down, but I’m telling you that isn’t the way to get what you want. The only thing it accomplishes is getting your ass put in prison right along with him.”

  “And what is the way to get what I want? Working with you and your cronies? I don’t trust cops. Never have, never will.”

  “Then trust me.” He’s still standing, so I sit in my chair across from him. It’s a calculated move, one that lets him feel as though he’s in the power position. He might be handcuffed to the table, but there’s enough chain that he’s able to walk around to my side if he wants. “Just because I’m part of the establishment you hate doesn’t change the fact that I genuinely want to help you and Starkey and, by extension, the people of London and Neverland, and however far Croc’s reach goes.”

  He takes a step around to the side of the table. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you care about me and Starkey?”

  “You think seeing that mug shot didn’t upset me, too? He might be four years younger than me, but Starkey was one of my friends for almost half of my childhood. And you…”

  James lifts his chin as though bracing for some kind of impact or preparing to be let down by what I say next. Jesus, has this guy ever had anyone stick their neck out for him, or has it been one disappointment after another for the last thirty years? Fuck the power position tactic. He needs to know he has an equal, someone who’s just as strong and willing to stand by his side.

  Pushing to my feet, I walk around to stand in front of him. He’s about an inch ta
ller than me, but I’ve got him by about twenty extra pounds thanks to my intense lifting program. I’m careful to keep some space between us despite everything in me wanting to fist his jacket and haul him against my chest. I don’t waiver for a second as I hold his gaze and speak honestly.

  “I’ve always cared about you, whether you wanted me to or not,” I say, my voice pitched low. “I can’t explain why, but I also don’t think it’s something that needs an explanation. It just is. You know why I wanted to become a cop?”

  His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, but he doesn’t spit back a snide comment or cocky rebuff, so I keep going. My mom always said honesty was the best policy. I hope she was right.

  “Because of you and the rest of the Lost Boys crew. I saw the bruises and black eyes after Croc got his hands on one or several of the kids. I heard Tink and some of the boys talk about dismantling shiny new cars when they should’ve been studying for school or playing like normal kids. And I know I probably didn’t even see half of what went on there, but I saw enough to understand it was a shitty situation with no one to help you out of it.

  “I wanted to help you, Hook. I wanted to help all of you. But I was just a kid myself, there was nothing I could do other than be a friend and help Wendy sneak in food and games. So I decided that when I grew up, I was going to make sure I was in a position where I could help people who couldn’t help themselves. I was going to be a cop and put the bad guys away, especially that asshole Fred Croc.

  “But as I was growing, so was he, and by the time I was in the police academy, he’d already branched out to bigger things than his small-time chop shop. So I set my sights even higher and joined the JTF. Now I’m in a position—we’re both in a position—to finally take him down. You just have to fucking trust me. For once in your goddamn life, let someone help you.”

  For several minutes, James doesn’t say a word, but I know he’s thinking. He’s smart, which means he’s running through all the possible scenarios of how this can go right…and how it can go utterly fucking wrong. “He’ll know you’re a cop,” he finally says. “There’s no way you pass for a Pirate. Croc deals in information; he has people who can sniff out your deepest secrets. He’ll find out who you are.”

  I shake my head. “Believe me, he won’t. We have guys who can scrub out my entire existence as John Darling and give me a new identity, complete with a criminal background and time served. You’ll bring me in as someone to replace Starkey since you’re down a guy. I’ll pass, I promise. But if for some reason I’m made, they’ll get us out of there and bring him down with whatever evidence we’ve managed to get to that point. It shouldn’t take us long.”

  “I don’t care about getting me out. I want Starkey out of there.”

  Not for the first time I wonder if Starkey isn’t more to James than just another crew member. I know he’s closer to him and Smee because they’ve been with him since childhood, but even Peter told me that there’s something different about Hook’s relationship with Starkey. Peter had never seen him so crazy over one of his guys getting picked up by the cops before. Logic would point to them being lovers, but my gut is telling me that’s not the case. Or maybe it’s just my blind hope.

  “Starkey’s already been to court and sentenced,” I say, “so there are only two ways he’s getting out of prison. Either Croc pulls the strings to make the whole thing go away and the prison suddenly has an inmate mysteriously disappear, or we bring down his house of cards, clear Starkey’s name, and put Croc on the other side of those bars where he belongs.”

  James releases a heavy sigh and pulls on his midnight-black hair with his free hand before releasing it. I feel like I’m losing him.

  “Hook…” Willing him to see the determination and sincerity in my eyes, I urge, “Trust me.”

  He levels a look of trepidation at me that cuts through my chest. For someone as distrustful as him, this has to be one of the hardest things he’ll ever do.

  “Fine,” he says, and relief washes over me. “But when you’re a Pirate, you do as I goddamn say or your cover will be blown, and I won’t be able to lift a finger to help you. You got me?”

  “Yeah, man. I got you.”

  Little does he know that Pirate or not, I’d do as he says anyway. If he actually knew the power he holds over me, I’d be in trouble. For now, I’ll take this small victory. He might not admit it—would probably claim he has no choice—but he’s trusting me. I hope like hell this means he can hear me knocking on those concrete walls he’s surrounded himself with his entire life. If not, I’ll keep on knocking and pounding and chiseling away until I finally get through to him.

  Because whether he believes it or not, James Hook is worth the fucking effort.

  Chapter Five

  HOOK

  Then

  Age 14

  * * *

  “How long does it take to wash your dirty fuckin’ mitts up there? Get your asses down here pronto!”

  A shiver races down my spine, chilling me to the bone, despite the scalding hot water running over my hands. Every night when me and the other kids get back from working in the shop all day, I hope to fucking God—if there even is such a thing—that Croc ends up drinking with his buddies after hours, then sleeps it off on the couch in his shop office. Sometimes I get my wish.

  Tonight, I didn’t.

  As I mentally steel myself for the next few hours, the kid next to me says, “Dirty work makes dirty hands, am I right, boys?”

  The kids—eight other boys and one girl who thinks she’s a fairy thanks to the idiot talking—chuckle and continue to get the grease off their hands as much and as fast as possible.

  Fucking Peter Pan.

  I can’t stand the kid. There couldn’t be two more opposite people on the planet than me and Pan. At twelve, he’s the next oldest here, but for some reason all the kids look up to him as their leader. Except for Smee and Starkey, who consider me their captain. Not that it’s a huge accomplishment when a nine- and six-year-old follow you around like puppies, but I’m not about to tell them to take a fucking hike, either.

  Especially not Starkey. No one knows he’s my brother, not even him, and I intend to keep it that way. I got my reasons. But that doesn’t mean I don’t look out for him, and it’s easier to do that when he’s more or less my constant shadow. If I’m not around, he’s stuck at the hip to Smee, so at least I know he’s always got someone watching over him.

  Glancing up in the long mirror above the row of sinks, I catch Pan’s smirk and it rubs me the wrong way. “Everything’s a joke to you, Pan. When are you gonna grow up? You act like it’s normal for kids to be working in a chop shop. This is called a school, but we spend more time busting our asses taking cars apart or putting them back together for a small-time crook than we ever have cracking open our textbooks.”

  He shrugs. "It might not be normal for other kids, but it's our normal. There's nothing we can do to change it, so we might as well make the best of things. Besides, growing up doesn't sound like all that much fun to me. At least here we have food and a place to sleep. Growing up means getting banished from Neverland, and who the hell knows what happens to the kids then."

  My eyes snap up to glare at him in the mirror. Sometimes I’d really like to shake some sense into him. He’s so fucking clueless about the world and how cruel it is. Even before Starkey and I ended up here, my life was shit. Day after day of dealing with a junkie mom who was either strung out on heroin or figuring out how to get her next fix. Then Starkey came along, and I became a substitute dad at the age of eight because our mother could barely take care of herself, much less a baby.

  But I’d take those days in a heartbeat over the ones I have here.

  “Doesn’t matter to me,” I say. “I don’t care where I go, as long as it’s far away from this place.”

  “Says the teacher’s pet.”

  Narrowing my eyes in his direction, I grind out, “You got something to say, Pan?”

  “J
ust that I don’t know why you’re bitchin’ about being here when you’re Croc’s favorite. I mean, you’re the one he’s taking under his wing, right? Teaching you how to run the business? That’s what you said he’s doing when he calls you down at night. Or maybe he’s not teaching you anything. Maybe it’s something fun like watching TV together, and you’re lying because he told you not to tell us what you’re really doing.”

  Pan’s words ping around in my brain. Croc’s favorite…taking you under his wing…calls you down at night…something fun… Rage burns in my blood and I get sick to my stomach all at the same time. That’s pretty much my default setting for the past couple months since Croc started “training” me to take over for him someday. He’s training me all right, but it has nothing to do with the damn shop.

  “You talk too much, Pan.”

  He smirks. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Doesn’t mean what I’m saying isn’t true, James.”

  That name triggers me, and all I see is red. “Call me that again, asswipe, and see if I don’t plant my fist right in your face.”

  Fuck it, I’m ready to punch him now. I have more pent-up anger in me than I know what to do with. It’ll feel good to let it loose on Peter. But just as I clench my fist, tiny Tinker Bell steps in front of him, all kinds of pissed. “Touch a single blond hair on his head, and I’ll tell Croc you were the one who took his pack of cigarettes.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face. Croc is already a nightmare. If he thinks I did something worth punishment… I shudder. “What the fuck ever, I’m outta here. Smee, Starkey, let’s go.”

  “Coming, Captain!” they say together, but I don’t bother to wait for them as I start putting as much distance between me and Pan as possible. That kid is constantly dancing on my last nerve. The others don’t know that I have shit so much worse than them, but they do know they don’t have it great. Croc beats us when he gets pissed, takes away our meal privileges—as if it’s not our right to eat every damn day—or locks us in dark closets for days at a time and calls it solitary confinement.