by Callie Hart
However, this is all grade-A bullshit.
Zander sounds genuine. I mostly believe what he’s just told me, but even if it is all true, that still means he spent six months in juvie with me, knowing way more about me than he let on. He knew where Giacomo was when I didn’t. I bitched, and I griped, and I told him things about my family that I hadn’t told anybody before, and he didn’t say a fucking word. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have the opportunity. I mean, all we did was hang out all day, lifting weights and sparring, for fuck’s sake.
I twist the tire iron around in my hand, watching it spin as I run my tongue over my teeth. After a second, I stop it abruptly, jumping to my feet. “Fair enough.”
Zander follows me with his eyes as I make my way to the door. “That’s it? Fair enough? Where the fuck are you going, man? I feel like you need a zanny or something.”
“I don’t need a zanny,” I spit. “I need to make sure Jack’s fucks off back to wherever the hell he came from.”
Monty and my father are not friends.
That’s what Zander said.
When he petitioned to become my legal guardian, Monty told me he owed it to Jack to look out for me, which means Monty’s been lying to me, keeping secrets…
My temper’s on a high simmer as I slam through the entrance into the Rock. For a Saturday, the place is uncharacteristically quiet. Barely anyone hanging out by the pool tables. The booths in the back by the rear bar are all empty, which is super weird.
Paulie, the bar tender, looks like he’s seen a ghost when he clocks me storming toward the ‘employees only’ entrance that leads to Monty’s office. “Alex, man! What are you doing here? Boss said you were gonna be off for a couple of weeks?”
I flip him the bird and a cutting grin at the same time, then enjoy watching him trying to figure out the greeting as I push open the door and disappear through it into the dark hallway beyond.
“Alex! ALEX!” The door opens again and Paul calls after me. “Hang back, brother. He’s got someone in there with him. Alex, are you listeni—”
No, I’m not listening. The moment I saw the other gleaming black Camaro out in the parking lot, I knew my sneaky bastard of a father had shown up here, bad blood or no. If my sperm donor’s having a tête-à-tête with the boss, then I want to know what the fuck they’re talking about. I’m so done with this bullshit. Dispensing with formality I don’t bother to knock, barging right into Monty’s office…only to find Monty pinned face-down on his desk by a man who most definitely is not my father.
The guy’s head whips up, and I’m met with the cold, dead eyes of a killer. I don’t even think. I fucking duck, because that’s what my fight or flight reflex screams at me to do. There’s a swift thunk overhead, followed by the sharp, juddering sound of wobbling metal, and…holy fucking shit…I look up and there’s a mean-looking serrated hunting knife buried an inch deep in the staff notice board, right where my head was a moment ago.
“Wait, wait, wait! Fuck’s sake!” Monty hollers. “Relax, okay! He’s just a fucking kid. Alex, get the fuck out of here. NOW!” There’s genuine concern in his voice. For a split second, I almost believe that he does actually care about me and this hasn’t all been some kind of game to him.
The guy grinding Monty’s head into his computer keyboard hasn’t even blinked. He’s a monster of a dude, built like a line-backer. I’ve been confronted with some dangerous motherfuckers in my time, but this guy looks like he’d put a bullet between my eyes without even flinching.
“Zeth! Zeth, I mean it, man. Just…don’t. Alex, get back in the bar and wait for me there.”
Hmm. What to do, what to do. Part of me wants to bolt down the hall and get the fuck out of here. But then there’s the part of me that’s craving chaos and destruction. The part of me that’s still reeling from everything that’s happened recently. It’s the dangerous part of me that wants to break open like rotten fruit and bleed out all of my pain, spilling my tangled guts out onto the earth…
I unfurl myself like a cat, straightening up with care, never taking my eyes off the guy. “If I walk back that way, I’m coming back with a shotgun,” I tell him.
“Better kill you where you stand then,” the other guy rumbles. His voice is so deep and rough, it sounds like he eats a side of glass with every meal.
“Jesus Christ, this is fucking ridiculous. Quit it, both of you. Zeth, sit back down,” Monty commands. “We can discuss this like the proper business-minded gentlemen that we are.”
The stranger, Zeth, runs me through with sharp, angry eyes, still staring me down. “I’m not business minded. I’m not gentle. I’m pissed. Sitting down ain’t gonna change that.”
Squaring my shoulders, I take a step forward into the office. Monty grits his teeth, baring them like a rabid dog. “Are you fucking deaf, kid? I told you to go.”
I look him dead in the eye—sharp, cold, and hostile. “I just had an interesting chat with Zander. He shed some light on your relationship with my father.”
“God’s sake, Alex. Now is not the fucking time! If you wanna be useful, go find Q. Tell him—”
Zeth tuts under his breath, leaning his weight forward onto Monty’s head. The added pressure of such a huge guy bearing down on his skull must be pretty spectacular, because Monty quits handing out his instructions and opens his mouth, yelling silently.
“Ever cracked someone’s head open, kid?” Zeth asks. “Seen inside their brain pan? Poked around in their grey matter? Pretty fucking fascinating stuff.”
Damn it. I’m not happy with Monty, but I don’t necessarily want him dead. Not yet, anyway. There are still a bunch of pressing questions that I’d like answers to. I take a step forward, ready to snap out a right hook, but Zeth’s eyes narrow a fraction, barely a millimeter, and I know it would be a bad idea. He sees me coming. I can attempt every trick I know to try and throw him off, but this guy’s a professional. He’s played all the plays. He’s wise to any deception I might try and throw at him. “The brain’s an interesting thing,” he continues. “Shielded by bone, floating around in all that cerebrospinal fluid, it has the power to create worlds. Build empires. Inspire nations. But poke at it with something sharp…in just the right way…”
“I didn’t come here for an anatomy lesson.”
He cocks his head sharply to one side. “I didn’t come here to teach one. I came here for a bag. Wouldn’t happen to know where it is, would you? Black? Kind you might take to the gym?”
Monty winces, hissing through his teeth, spit flying everywhere. “Keep your goddamn mouth shu—”
In a black blur of movement, startlingly fast, Zeth reaches around, grabs something silver and shining from the small of his back, and—
CRACK!
A hail of splinters explodes into the air. A curl of smoke, bitter-smelling and acrid, rises from the muzzle of the gun in Zeth’s hand. He just shot Monty’s desk, barely an inch away from the old bastard’s face.
“It occurs to me,” the man in the leather jacket says, “that you’re not taking this situation very seriously. Forgive me for not making myself clear. This isn’t a business meeting. It ain’t a friendly negotiation. The bag belongs to me. If I don’t get it back, I am gonna get fucking medieval on your ass. By all means, decide how the rest of your day is gonna look. No skin off my nose. I will find what I came here for…and I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to hang, draw and quarter someone.”
Monty’s as still as a marble statue, blinking like crazy. God knows what having a gun go off right next to your face will do to a man’s vision, but it can’t be good for you. “I—I—” he stammers. God, he’s a stubborn piece of shit. He nearly just took a bullet to the face, for fuck’s sake, and that shot wasn’t an empty threat. It was a reminder of what comes next if he doesn’t start playing ball.
Suddenly, I’m far too tired and bored by this whole situation to watch it spiral any further down the rabbit hole. Fuck Monty. Fuck this job. Fuck Zeth and his stupid fucking
bag. “I have the duffel, asshole,” I announce. “It’s at my apartment. You want it, you’re welcome to it.”
“You little shit. You’re fucking dead!” Monty hollers.
He can be mad all he wants. He’s about to learn just how little I like being manipulated. If Zeth’s surprised by my claim that I have his bag, then he keeps his thoughts well hidden. “Take me to it,” he demands.
Monty kicks out, trying to hit Zeth in an attempt to wrestle himself free. “Alex. You’re gonna cost me a hundred Gs—”
Zeth picks Monty’s head up and smashes it back down onto the desk. “Your life worth more than a hundred grand to you, asshole?” When Monty doesn’t respond, Zeth scoots down and bends over him, getting up in his face. “That wasn’t rhetorical. Is your miserable backwater pimp existence worth more than one hundred thousand dollars to you?”
“Y-yes!”
“Then shut your fucking mouth, stand up straight and head out to the parking lot. Cause trouble and I’ll bury a bullet in the back of your head, and the rest of your staff will be dead before your out-of-shape carcass hits the deck. Got it?”
Monty’s eyes are full of fire and brimstone as he reluctantly pushes away from the desk and stands ramrod straight. He puffs his chest out like he just fought and won the right to stand instead of being told to get up. An angry muscle ticks in his jaw. The cold, hard glare he gives me as he slowly walks out of the office conveys plenty with its leaden weight. This is betrayal. You’re fucking dead to me, Moretti. Don’t expect to be forgiven for this…
In all the time I’ve known Montgomery, he’s ruled his little empire with an iron fist. There’s a measure of pride he takes in his work and a level of respect he commands from the people who deal with him. He’s never been disrespected like this before, and certainly not in front of one of his subordinates. Even if he could forgive me for handing over this bag so easily, he’ll never be able to forgive me for seeing him bettered like this. His shame will turn to vengeance, even though my actions have probably just saved his life.
His intentions are irrelevant now, though. I don’t want to be forgiven. I want to burn his world down to its foundations.
Zeth gestures with false benevolence for me to go ahead of him. In a grim, sour tone, Monty insists on having the last word. “Do whatever the fuck you like, Mayfair. You are not putting me in the fucking trunk.”
9
SILVER
“Wait. You’re supposed to be a woman. My mom said you cut some sort of deal in court when Alex was released.” The man on the front doorstep spreads his hands out in front of him, palm-up, and shrugs.
“Maybe your mom wasn’t actually there. Maybe she just read the court transcript. There’s…there was another Detective Lowell. My sister. Clerks mix us up all the time when they type up their reports.”
Sounds like a lie, but I just inspected his ID and it looked perfectly legit. “This won’t take a minute,” the detective says. “We have everything we need for our case. There are a few small details I’d like to go over before submitting my report. That okay with you?” He’s tall and clean-cut, wearing a North Face puffer jacket. The hair on the sides of his head has been shaved to a tight, fashionable fade. He’s dressed casually but there’s something militaristic and severe about him. He doesn’t give off the impression that I could decline to answer his questions. His authoritative, no-nonsense tone makes it clear that I don’t really have a choice in the matter, which sucks because I could really do without this shit right now.
“I’ve gone over my statement at least six times already. This weekend’s been really shitty, Agent Lowell. Can’t this wait until next week or something?”
The guy smiles tightly, not meaning it. “Call me Jamie. And unfortunately, no. I have to present the information I’ve gathered to my boss tomorrow. If there are discrepancies, we won’t be presenting our strongest case to the judge when the time comes. And I’m just guessing here, but I’m pretty sure you don’t want Weaving let off with a caution and some community service for the shit he pulled in that gymnasium, right?”
Weaving.
Nausea rolls through me in a never-ending wave. Hearing that name said out loud makes me flinch. “Oh, no. I’d love it if he got off with a caution, Jamie. I think it’d be great if he gets released and then tries to murder me again. Hopefully he’ll be successful next time.”
Agent Lowell grimaces, rocking on the balls of his feet. It’s freezing cold out. The rain turned to snow a couple of hours ago, and the wind is howling across the porch. I probably should have invited him inside, but so what? Fucking sue me. I’m exhausted. My manners have taken a sabbatical.
“Listen, Silver. I know this is all really overwhelming. Talking about what happened must bring up a lot of bad memories, but I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. What if Jake gets out and it isn’t you he comes after? What if he hurts someone else, and another assault could have been prevented if—”
Rolling my eyes, I head back into the house, leaving the door open behind me. “Stop. You’ve made your point.” I just want this whole fiasco to be over. Sending Agent Lowell away only to have to deal with him another time is tantamount to putting off the inevitable; I might as well just get it out of the way.
In the kitchen, I pour coffee into a filter, dump it inside the machine, slam the lid closed, and hit the brew button. In the corner, lying in his bed by pantry door, Nipper bares his teeth and growls at the stranger in his house. Agent Lowell—doesn’t look anything like a Jamie to me—curls a lip up at the dog, then leans across the kitchen island, resting on his forearms. He’s in his mid-twenties, probably. With his dirty blond hair, neat stubble, and his ice blue eyes, he’s good-looking and he knows it. Confidence oozes out of him like he’s been nailed by buckshot and he just can’t stop the flow. Women of all ages melt when he turns that roguish, half-apologetic smile on them, I’ll bet. Jake was good looking too, though. I’ve learned that good looks don’t make you a good person. Your appearance doesn’t mean shit if your soul’s as black as tar. I lean back against the oven, folding my arms across my chest.
Agent Lowell doesn’t seem to know what to do with my blank stare. “Like I said. There were a few things I wanted to clarify….” He trails off.
“Go ahead.”
“You told the officer who interviewed you at the hospital that Jacob Weaving raped you earlier this year. I’m a little confused. If you were sexually assaulted by Jacob, why was there no report on file?”
My nerve endings prickle, a thousand tiny fire ants biting the flesh between my shoulder blades and down the backs of my arms. Seriously? He’s gonna pull this shit? “I didn’t file a report. I was too scared of what would happen if I did. Girls get judged when the use the word rape. In my experience, that word makes a lot of men uncomfortable. I’d already been violated enough by then. I couldn’t have handled the endless questioning and probing. I told one person and he downplayed the whole thing. Tried to make out like nothing unusual happened. Yes, I’ve come forward now, and, no, I don’t think that it’s convenient timing, when Jake’s locked up for other crimes. I don’t think any of it is convenient. I did what I had to in order to make it through one day, and then the next. And then the next. That’s all there is to it.”
Lowell pouts, his mouth pulling down at both corners. It’s a ‘sure. Maybe I can see that being true’ face. I want to make this fucker bleed. “Okay. After the incident, you said you went shopping for some items from the pharmacy?”
The expression slides off my face. Shopping? Fucking shopping? “I went to get the morning after pill, because I didn’t want to end up pregnant after three different guys forced their dicks inside me. I wasn’t stocking up on lip gloss and hair products.”
“Logical,” he says, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Very logical. I’ve dealt with a lot of rape cases. Most girls don’t show that level of forethought. They’re usually too distraught to think that clearly—”
The coffee maker
pings, noisily bubbling away as it begins to pour the brewed coffee into the carafe. Meanwhile, a stunned calm has fallen over me. “Why are you really here, Jamie? What do you gain from questioning me like this? Zen was attacked. You’ve seen those photos, right? They don’t leave much room for conjecture. She’s given her statement, too. Jake’s already locked up for his involvement in his dad’s smuggling ring, not to mention breaking most of my ribs and trying to hang me in the school gym. Like I said, I gain nothing from reporting the attack now. Jake’s gonna rot behind bars for a very long time…”
Agent Lowell smiles broadly, looking down at the covered plate of cookies by the fruit bowl to his right. “Precisely.” He shrugs. “Apart from the fact that people are fawning over your friend. They’re very sympathetic toward her. Her hospital room looks like a high-end florists. But you…” He makes a show of looking around, hunting for the flowers that I haven’t been sent. “They’re less sympathetic to your story, Silver. People seem to think you might have had reason to target Jake. Some sort of high school vendetta. You used to have a crush on him, didn’t you?”
A high-pitched, endless tone rings in my ears, muting my thoughts. I can’t…he can’t really be…fucking serious? I scramble to form words, to refute the implications that he’s making, but I can’t even remember how to speak.
Thankfully, I don’t have to. “You’d better have a damn good reason for being in my kitchen, questioning my underage daughter without an adult present, Detective.”
I didn’t hear Dad pull up in the driveway. Didn’t hear the front door open, either. My father charges into the kitchen like a thunderstorm, exuding a dark fury that has Lowell pushing away from the kitchen island, the smug look on his face morphing into a mask of professionalism.
“Mr. Parisi. Silver agreed to talk with me. She’s a smart girl. She knows that if she’s got nothing to hide, she—”
