: Chapter 20

I brush my teeth, rubbing the steam off the mirror. The shower runs, and I’m running late. I quickly spit toothpaste into the sink, and then brush some more. A hickey colors the skin just above my collarbone, and my tank top is stretched out from Army’s hands underneath it. I smile to myself as I spit again. It’s nice to be with someone who’s kind. Affectionate in public. Gentle.

Trace stumbles through the door, his eyes half-hooded, and his dark hair sticking up in every direction. He flips up the toilet seat, his abs flexing as he fumbles with his zipper and starts pissing right in front of me.

I stop brushing mid-stroke. “Seriously?”

He opens one eye, peering over at me. “Nothing you haven’t seen before,” he mumbles.

Ugh. I spit. “Bet you say that to all the girls.”

Dallas chuckles, walking in and grabbing his toothbrush. Squeezing on some toothpaste, he scrubs his teeth next to me, both of us alternating using the faucet and rinsing out our mouths.

I set my toothbrush in the cup. “I have to get the kids to school.”

“Already covered,” Trace says, fastening his jeans and flushing.

He squeezes the back of my neck in some kind of endearing little hug without washing his damn hands.

“Are you sure?” I ask him.

“Don’t worry about it.”

He’s heading into St. Carmen anyway, I guess.

“Thank you,” I call out as he leaves, stretching his arms over his head and yawning.

“I’ll be back for dinner,” Dallas says, sticking his toothbrush in the cup. “Can you make that sandwich I like?”

“I’ll tell Mariette.” I twist off the cap of the mouthwash. “I’ll be out.”

“Where are you going?”

But I take a swig right out of the bottle before I can answer.

The shower shuts off as I swish, and the curtain flies open. Macon fastens a towel around his waist.

I glance over, only long enough for the mouthwash to dribble out of my mouth a little. The cuts of the muscles in his arms and shoulders glide in smooth lines, and his long torso, narrow waist, and tawny skin are a couple of shades darker than mine. His dark wet hair drapes to a point between his eyes and down his nose, and his eyebrows make him look amazing when he’s angry. I kind of want to piss him off right now.

I’m not sure why he’s not using his own shower, but I’m not complaining.

“Get out,” he says, stepping out of the tub.

Dallas wipes off his mouth and throws down the towel as he goes. I whip around to spit out the mouthwash and follow him, but Macon takes my arm and pulls me back before I have a chance. “Not you.”

He takes my face in his hands, inspecting the cuts and bruises as I stand there wide-eyed, my mouth ballooning with mouthwash that’s starting to burn my tongue.

He turns me side to side. “It’s healing.”

I nod.

But then he says, “You didn’t put ointment on last night.”

Like he instructed me to …

How the hell can he tell?

Spinning around, I dive down and spit out the mouthwash, wiping off my mouth. “Do you want a smoothie?” I ask him.

I see the shape of him through the steam on the mirror as he hovers at my back. “No,” he says.

I don’t move, watching him as he stands there, nearly a head taller. He doesn’t tell me to move—or leave—and I go still as he cocks his head, the heat of his body so close it warms me.

Something vibrates under my skin, and I want to feel something that’s not gentle or kind, and all of it hidden away in a dark room.

“Where’s Army?” Macon whispers.

His breath sends tingles across my neck. He knows Army is still asleep.

“Get his fucking ass up,” he tells me.

And then he leaves.

These goddamn men …

Inever realized how my school skirt chafed my thighs until I left high school. I run my hands over the pleats and tuck in the black Polo shirt of my old school uniform as I hike up the driveway of Fox Hill.

Kent Sharpe, the security guard, steps out of his guardhouse.

“Hey,” I chirp.

“Hi, hon.” He pulls the toothpick out of his mouth. “All your classmates already left for the day.”

He doesn’t know I already graduated.

“Oh, I know.” I pass him, turning to maintain eye contact as I walk backward. “I forgot my phone on the patio.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Exactly,” I state. “Do you mind if I …”

“Of course not.” He waves me off. “Talk to the host, and he’ll take you back.”

“Thanks.”

Spinning around, I keep walking, super glad he didn’t ask why I’m not driving. I left my car parked along the highway. I don’t want it seen up here.

Crickets buzz beyond the green, in the trees, and a few frogs croak at a nearby pond. I love my town at night. So many nocturnal creatures, and they’re loud. A reminder that a whole other party starts after the sun sets.

I glance to my right, seeing my father’s Bentley Continental, the windshield all repaired, and face forward again. I smile at Rafe as he opens the door to the clubhouse for me. His eyes take in my uniform. He doesn’t ask questions.

Stepping inside, I keep my eyes forward and head straight for the stairs. I try to look like I know where I’m going and what I’m doing, but not so fast that I look like I’m trying to hide it.

I swing around the newel post and head behind the stairs, not up them.

“Still here?” someone calls out.

I look over my shoulder, seeing Louis Fine, the host who works the restaurant, as he crosses the foyer into the bar.

I turn back around and keep going. “A few of us, yeah!”

“Good kids,” he coos. “Working hard.”

I keep going, rounding a corner and disappearing from view as I walk down a long hallway. Marymount Academy, my alma mater, schedules three service days a year as part of our civic credit requirement for graduation. We pick up a little trash off the streets, or mow an elderly person’s lawn, or walk some sick people’s dogs, so our parents and teachers can take pictures and say, “Look what good humans we’re putting into the world.”

But basically it amounts to a day off school where you half-ass it, hang out with your friends, and then cut out early when no one is looking to go party at someone’s pool.

Except me. I was a little shit about a lot things in high school, but I liked service days. No one wanted to go to the assisted living centers, because the old people always wanted to talk to you, but I love to talk.

A lot of students opt for spending the day at Fox Hill, though. There are always famous pros around, lots of hiding places, and the food is excellent. If you’re lucky, you get a cart girl willing to serve you if you tip right. It looks like all the current Marymount students have already left after their service day today, so I won’t run into anyone calling me out, but … it’s also why no one working here is batting an eyelash that a uniformed minor is walking around alone.

I open a door and step through, closing it behind me. I walk past three racquetball courts on my right, the rubber balls like thunder as they bang against the walls.

Without a hitch in my step, I slip through another door, then down a hallway, and quietly twist the handle of the last door on the left.

I peer inside.

Rows of long and short lockers rise high in the room, towels strewn on the counters and on the floor, because rich men do not pick up after themselves. The women’s locker room is much cleaner.

A shower runs in the back, but at this hour, I don’t see anyone walking around. I slink in, closing the door behind me.

Stepping between two benches, I slide down a row, my back to the lockers as I come to the end of the aisle. Waiting, I slowly peek around the corner, but I don’t see anyone, so I hurry on to the next row. Stopping at 17-b, I punch in the code. One-two-seven-eight-key. Same code my father uses for his debit cards, the auto start on his cars, and—I open the locker and smile, seeing what I’m after—his cell phone. Snatching it, I close the door, cross the aisle, and hide away in a bathroom stall.

Quickly, I pull out my phone, turn off the volume, and slip it back in my skirt before opening up my dad’s cell. Going to texts first, I see a thread from Blake Tyson, his girlfriend, and scroll through messages until I reach those dated last year.

While he was still living at home.

Florida is a no-fault state, and I’m sure my mother was unfaithful many times, so I’m not sure I’ll use this, but just in case. Proving infidelity could guarantee custody of the kids and alimony.

I start screenshotting and texting to my phone, feeling it buzz with every notification in my pocket. I see emails from his lawyer, but I bypass those, spotting bank statements instead. I don’t look. I don’t have time. I forward documents to myself, careful to delete any record of the texts and emails, as well as the screenshots.

Peering out into the locker room, I stuff his phone back with the rest of his stuff and close the locker up.

I blow out a breath, sweat covering my back. I’m not sure that I’m nervous. What’s he going to do if he finds me? But I don’t want him to know what I’m up to and give him a chance to cover his tracks.

I start to walk out, but I stop and look down in the direction of the shower where he’s no doubt washing off his Wednesday night racquetball game before he goes home to her.

For a while after he split, I thought he wasn’t seeing us because he was in Atlanta. Settling into his new office. New house.

Then I found out he never left town.

He must’ve known I’d see him eventually. He didn’t even try to prepare me. As if my reaction wouldn’t faze him.

As if I no longer mattered.

That’s how quickly things can change.

It’s amazing how people smile at you and kiss you on the forehead and they never wanted to be there. I can’t say much surprises me anymore.

At least now I know a little more about myself because of my parents’ actions. I will be fierce about my family someday.

I slip through the door to the racquetball court and make my way for the clubhouse entrance again.

Clay’s dad shakes off his long coat, letting the host take it while his dinner party laughs and moves into the dining room ahead of him. My father cheated on my mother, and I can’t stand him. Clay’s dad cheated on her mom, and still, I don’t think he’s a bad guy. The tragedy they endured—the loss of Clay’s little brother—is something I hope never to experience, and I wouldn’t have the audacity to judge.

I pluck a stuffed mushroom off the tray heading in after them and lock eyes with my best friend’s dad, smiling. “Thanks for defending my honor, Mr. Collins.”

And I pop the mushroom into my mouth, not stopping to chat as he turns toward me.

My own dad is undoubtedly aware that Jerome Watson is circulating a picture of me. I don’t think he punched him like Mr. Collins did.

I hurry down the driveway, but someone grabs my hand. “What are you doing here?” Army asks.

I spin around, but he presses his finger to my lips before I can speak.

He pulls me across the green, around the clubhouse, to an unmarked door underneath the patio porch overhead.

I know the door.

The Wolfe Room.

He yanks me inside, and we head down a nearly pitch-black stairwell.

I step into a room, seeing Dallas and Trace standing next to a table full of beer bottles.

Army releases me. “Why are you here?” he asks again.

Why shouldn’t I be?

Instead, I ask, “Why are you here?”

“We work here, remember?”

Trace and Dallas remain quiet.

They shouldn’t be in here. Not in this room. I’ve never even been in here before. I glance around, taking note of a few leather chairs and some nice landscape art on the walls.

But very dark and moody. And very little to do. From what I can see anyway. No TV, no bar, not even bookshelves. As if the entertainment is brought in. I look up, seeing several compartments in the roof. I drop my eyes, shifting in my Converse.

“I had something to do,” I finally admit.

I’ve been here a hundred times. Did they forget I’m from St. Carmen?

Army approaches me. “Why are you keeping secrets?”

“It’s fun.” I grin. “I’m feeling very Harley Quinn. I just completed a covert operation all by myself.”

“There’s nothing covert about Harley Quinn.”

True. “How about I just did something naughty?”

“And didn’t get caught?” he presses. “Catwoman.”

“Eh.” I fold my arms over my chest. “I don’t look good in black.”

It completely washes me out.

“Is this going to come back and bite us in the ass?” Army looks ready to scold me.

I shake my head. “If it bites anyone’s ass, it’ll be mine.”

He steps up to me, looking down into my eyes like I’m so adorable.

“My father is here,” I tell him. “I broke into his locker and texted myself screenshots from his phone. His email, his credit card charges, his texts …”

“Did you erase the screenshots you took?”

“Yes.”

“And emptied the trash?” Dallas chimes in.

“I’m not an idiot.”

“Did you erase the texts you sent yourself?” Trace questions.

I widen my eyes in shock, covering my mouth with my hand.

When Trace cocks his head and opens his mouth, ready to chastise me, I drop my hand and scowl. “Yes, you moron.”

I’m a child of the digital age.

Army blinks his long eyelashes over those beautiful eyes. “You did it for your mother.”

I shrug. “My mom is my mom, but she deserves her cut. And so do my siblings.”

“And you?”

I don’t reply.

I guess I could squeeze my college fund back out of my father, but I didn’t think about it. I’m not sure I can demand anything yet. I need to study the information I just got.

But Trace steps closer. “She has us,” he tells his brother.

“And we have her,” Dallas adds.

They both move closer, standing with Army, and the room suddenly feels a lot smaller.

I turn around and grab the door handle, but a hand covers mine on the knob. I stare at the leather straps around his right wrist.

“I want her,” I hear Dallas say behind me. “It’s my turn.”

I freeze.

“Dallas, that’s enough,” Army tells him.

I turn around and move away from Dallas, toward the other side of the room.

He pulls off his T-shirt and tosses it aside.

I shake my head. “Knock it off.”

But before I know what’s happening, he catches me in his arms.

Not roughly, though. The hold is soft, gentle.

The pinch between his brows makes his eyes look pained, his green darker than Army’s. Like camouflage.

“Dallas, let her go,” Army bites out.

But Dallas’s eyes don’t leave mine. “I want her.”

He doesn’t.

He wants to feel powerful.

He wants his turn, because he thinks I didn’t care who Iron was. Or who Trace or Army are.

But he whispers, so only I can hear. “Stay with us.”

The hair on the back of my neck rises.

He brushes his thumb across my cheek, bringing it up to look at it, and I see a thin drop of blood from the cut on my face. He sticks it in his mouth, and my mouth falls open long enough for him to grab the back of my hair and cover my lips with his.

My growl is muffled in his mouth, and I shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. Lifting me by the backs of my thighs, he hefts me up.

“Let’s take you back to your house,” he says. “We’ll take care of you, and you take care of us.”

“Dallas …”

I think it was Trace that time, but I’m too stunned to concentrate.

What the hell is Dallas doing? What does …

And then I realize.

You take care of us, he said.

“You want pictures of me?” I ask.

He smiles, Army and Trace slowly moving in.

“For a start,” Dallas says.

“No,” Trace tells him.

Followed by Army. “Enough. Let’s go.”

“Let her make her own decisions,” Dallas snaps.

I barely breathe.

I’ve been with Army and Trace already. Why not help them in the one way I can?

That’s what Dallas is thinking anyway.

He’d humiliate me as a means to an end.

But for some reason, I haven’t said no yet. I know Dallas isn’t asking me to do anything he wouldn’t be willing to do himself.

He would do it.

“Will it help?” I ask quietly. “Will a Conroy on camera get you what you want?”

He lowers me to my feet, takes out his phone, and tosses it to one of his brothers, but I don’t see who.

He touches my face. “We’ll forget the camera is even there. I promise.”

He drops down in front of me, holding my eyes as he starts to slide his hands up my skirt.

I reach down and grab his hands, but I don’t pull them off. “Start the camera, Trace,” he says. And then to his other brother, “Army, take off her shirt.”

Oh my God.

I can’t get enough air. I’m suffocating.

Army moves, Dallas starts to slide my underwear down, and I suck in a breath and freeze.

Shit.

I start to push him away, but then … a throat clears loudly, and I dart my eyes up.

Santos stands in the open doorway, so big he takes up the entire frame.

I suck in a breath, yanking away from Dallas and fixing my underwear.

What the hell? What was I doing?

Trace and Army twist around, and Dallas stands up tall. I adjust my clothes, pushing hair out of my face that fell from my ponytail.

“Santos?” Army blurts out. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I swallow through my parched mouth, my face hot.

“Macon says to bring her home,” Santos says.

Army moves forward. “What?”

“How did …?” Dallas starts but stops.

Then … they all glance at the corner of the room behind them. I follow their gaze, not seeing anything.

But as I step to the side, the light from a lamp catches a small piece of glass on the corner, near the ceiling, above a deer antler.

A lens. Army had said they have cameras here.

My chin trembles. Macon just saw all of that?

“How did you get here so fast?” Army asks him.

Santos looks down at his shoes, deliberately not answering.

Army laughs bitterly, shaking his head.

“What?” I ask him. What’s so funny?

“He has a guard on you,” Army tells me.

What?

I gape at Santos, not remembering if I’ve seen him anywhere near me other than the restaurant. Why would Macon have a guard following me?

“Since when?” I ask Santos.

“Since you got jumped at the Bug Jam.”

Jesus.

Well, that explains how he got to us so fast. He was already here. All Macon had to do was call him.

“We’ll take her home,” Army says, taking my hand.

But when we move toward the door, Santos doesn’t move out of the way.

“To the Bay,” he commands Army. “He wants her home now.”

“That’s not her home.”

“To the Bay,” Santos repeats.

Army squeezes my hand like he’s gauging whether the three of them can take Santos.

I look up at Army. “He doesn’t want this,” I say. “Which means he wouldn’t use it.”

Even if I went through with it.

I pry my hand out of his and step forward. “I’m going home,” I tell the guy. “To my house.”

“Macon says to bring you to him.”

And then he sweeps me up, knocking the wind out of me as he throws me over his shoulder like a wet sheet.

I scream. “Are you kidding me?”

“Motherfucker,” Army bites out.

But no one tries to stop him, Dallas and Trace saying absolutely nothing as I’m carted toward the field house where their trucks are parked.

We pull up in front of the house, all the windows dark and the garage door closed. The boys jump out of the truck, and I step out of my mom’s Rover, Santos in my driver’s seat. He didn’t trust me to drive here, and even though I bitched a little, he was right not to. There’s no way in hell I actually want to look in Macon’s eyes right now.

We walk through the front door, the shutter hanging above flapping against the house in the wind as Trace and Dallas scan left and right, because they’re just as nervous as I am. We turn into the living room and see Macon sitting in the chair, a stream of smoke from a cigarette rising from his fingers.

Army steps forward. “Macon—”

“Leave her here” is all he says.

I look to Trace, and he darts forward. “Macon—”

“Get the fuck out of my sight.”

I can’t swallow. Shit.

An image of the container he keeps out back flashes in my head.

I look to Army, frozen for a second, but then I nod. I’ll be okay.

Army hesitates, but he backs away. Dallas and Trace follow him up the stairs.

Snuffing out his cigarette, Macon rises and approaches me. His black pants hang too low, his arms looking like dead weights.

I back up. “Don’t hurt me.”

He stops in front of me, the glare in his eyes making the brown look a little red.

But still, he says nothing. Like he doesn’t want to talk at all. He wants to strangle me.

My voice is barely above a whisper as I stare at his stomach, not really seeing it, though. “I wasn’t going to do it,” I say. “I just knew it would solve everything.”

“And when your little brother and sister see what you did?”

I jerk my eyes up. “They would never have known,” I state. “My grandfather would never have let that video see the light of day.”

He cocks his head, the pinch between his brows replaced with condescension. “You are the stupidest person I’ve ever met.”

What does that mean?

“I wasn’t going to do it,” I tell him.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps a few times before my own phone dings with a notification. I reach inside my skirt, pulling it out. Opening the notification, I play the video he sent.

His brother starts to remove my clothes in the back seat of that cop car on Thanksgiving, Army’s teeth tugging at my mouth as my hands stay cuffed to the handle above the door.

The window shutter outside slams against the house hard, and I jump, about to cry. Macon watched this?

The fucking dash cam. I thought they turned it off.

He must’ve gotten the footage from the cops. Why? To protect me?

He’s already had a video of me for days.

“Why haven’t you used this?” I ask.

But he doesn’t reply.

I clench my jaw with realization. He watched this.

My chin trembles. “What if I’m not strong enough?” I ask quietly but don’t expect him to answer. “What if I give up and go home for Mars and Paisleigh? Jerome Watson is willing to pay a lot for me. What if …”

But I can’t continue.

Jerome Watson is promising a nice house and nice clothes and nice servants, and my family can keep living how they’re used to. What if I give in?

I try to find my words. “I thought … for a minute maybe it would be a good idea to use the only thing I have if it would win the Bay for you before I go. Before I let someone I hate do those things to me for the rest of my life just for lousy money.”

People screw all the time, every day. For worse reasons. I wasn’t in love with Trace or Iron. I don’t think I love Army yet. No one was going to get hurt.

But I wouldn’t have done it. I know that. I would’ve stopped if Santos hadn’t come in. I didn’t want it, and it would’ve changed the way I felt about the brothers. And the Bay.

Macon walks back to his chair, falling into it, his arms draped over the armrests.

I look at him, his eyes on the floor, deflated. No longer angry. I go to him and drop to the floor at his feet, sitting between his legs.

When he doesn’t move or push me away, I lay my head against his knee, feeling his hand come down on my hair.

I close my eyes, an electric current running through my chest.

“I’ll never do anything like that,” I tell him. “I promise.”

“If you do …” He strokes my hair. “I’m going to lock you in your room.”

A smile spreads across my face as tears spring to my eyes. I wrap my arms around his leg, and I don’t know if I’m happy he doesn’t want to see me do those things to help his family, or how he just insinuated Liv’s old room is now mine. I don’t know what I am to him, but I know he’s keeping me.

His hand shakes in my hair, and I hold him tighter, but he pulls away. “I need sleep,” he says. “I wish I could sleep.”

I look up at him, watching as he rubs his eyes. He looks so tired.

“That fucking shutter, Krisjen.” He breathes out, and I realize it’s still blowing in the wind outside. “Just go.” His voice is strained. “Go to bed.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Now.”

“Please just let me stay for a little while,” I whisper.

“Krisjen …”

“I just want to be near you.”

“Now!” he barks.

I startle and hurry to my feet. I want to stay. Nothing will happen, I just don’t want to leave him alone.

I want to be where he is.

But I’m not someone he needs. I can’t even get my own act together.

The Jaegers will be fine. They survived—flourished—long before me.

And they’ll still be here long after.