: Chapter 3

I enter the house, tossing my keys into the dish next to the door. I grunt at the semi-hard-on still going in my jeans. I fucking swear she was doing that on purpose. Pressing into me, holding on to me so tight, breathing on my neck … I almost ran a red light, not paying attention.

Aracely stands in the living room, wiping down one of the end tables. She sees me, tosses down the cloth, and saunters up to me. The flyaways from her messy bun fan across her face, and her winged eyeliner makes her brown eyes look even sexier. She still kind of does it for me. Too bad she’s fucking crazy.

“Did you slash her tires?” I ask.

“Well, how else could you be the hero?” she coos. “Did she hold you nice and tight on the back of that bike like I used to do?”

And then she strokes the can of furniture polish in her hand exactly like she used to … stroke me.

I chuckle. I broke up with her when we were teenagers so I wouldn’t have to deal with her every day, yet here we are. “I used to think your antics were fun,” I tell her, “but then I turned eighteen and grew the fuck up.”

“And yet you’re the one going to prison,” she shoots back, pulling out something from her back pocket. She holds up a pair of white cotton panties. “Found them in the couch.”

“They’re not mine.”

She reaches out, yanking me by the ear.

“Ow!” I pull away. “Celli, dammit …”

She gets in my face. “I would’ve expected something a little fancier for a St. Carmen girl.”

She means Krisjen.

She tosses the panties at me, and I catch them, firing back, “A St. Carmen girl knows it’s not the wrapper that sells the candy.”

She scowls, walking away, and I can’t help but smile after her. I’m going to miss her.

We pay her to clean up a couple of times a week, but I think she’d do it for free, honestly. She’s determined to be a part of this family.

She’s already dated Dallas and me, but I have no doubt someone’s going to marry her eventually. Just not me. She’s way too possessive. Even six years after we’ve broken up.

Although, I’m sure it’s more because I gave a Saint a ride home. The women in the Bay are territorial. They don’t like the rich girls coming over here and stealing their men. Even for a night.

But, I wonder how wealthy Krisjen actually is. I don’t expect her to pay me for repairs. We’re friends. Kind of. But why wouldn’t she have the money? Something’s going on.

I head into the kitchen, sticking the underwear in my pocket, and open the fridge, taking a swig out of the orange juice container.

Army zips up Dex’s lunch bag and screws on the cap of his water bottle. “Did she question you about the underwear?” he asks me.

I can hear the laughter in his voice.

I smile, nodding and putting the juice away. “I’ll make sure Krisjen gets them back.”

Or not. From the sound of it, we won’t see her again. Or at least I won’t before I leave.

Army slams the dishwasher shut, starts it, and pulls on his T-shirt. “All right,” he calls out. “I’m dropping the kid off at Jasmine’s and heading in with Dallas and Trace. You can ride with me unless you want to get a head start on the pools at the Bay Club and Fox Hill.”

“I’m not going in.” I pull my phone off the charger, checking for messages. “I’m done,” I tell him.

I feel his eyes on me.

I refuse to look at him.

“Iron …” he says.

But I ignore him. “Is Macon in the garage?”

“Iron …”

I hesitate, then look over my shoulder. “What?”

He stares at me, and I know what he’s going to say without him uttering a word. “You know what.” He shakes his head. “It’s your funeral.”

I walk to the door and pull it open, seeing Macon down in the garage working on a green seventies Wagoneer. Its owner is a regular customer. A collector in St. Carmen who trusts only Macon with it.

This is what he does most of the time now. He runs the business side of our landscaping and pool-cleaning services, but he rarely leaves the house to do it. Army is the boss everyone sees. He’s a lot easier for people to talk to. Macon hasn’t crossed the tracks in months. And before that, very rarely.

I close the door and walk down the three steps, as Dallas passes the open garage with the day’s cooler he just filled up with the hose. I hear the tailgate of the truck fall open, and Dex’s cry as Army carries him down the street to the babysitter.

Macon’s phone rings, and I dart my eyes between him and his cell that he’s pretending isn’t there. A half-empty bottle of bourbon sits on top of the toolbox behind him.

I square my shoulders. “The developers are going to come whether you answer that phone or not.”

He doesn’t look up.

I step closer, wiping the sweat off the back of my neck. “Look, I found some issues with Krisjen’s car,” I tell him. “I’m going to stick around here today and work on it.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, still twisting the wrench. “We need you on the job.”

“They’ll be fine without me.”

He tightens the bolt, the muscles in his arm flexing enough that I almost take a step back.

“So it’s not bad enough you’re leaving me shorthanded for three years,” he says, “but you can’t even pull your weight until you go?”

“I have eight more days of freedom I’d like to enjoy.”

He looks up. “Oh, you had your fun,” he points out. “Losing your freedom was the price, remember?” He tosses the tool down and turns, digging in a drawer and pulling out some needle-nose pliers. “Tell her to take it to a mechanic in St. Carmen. She’s not wasting our time just because you think you’re going to get laid.” And then he stops again, scowling. “And I’m sick of these girls hanging around. You understand? At least Aracely pulls her fucking weight. Y’all stop bringing them home.”

He goes back to work, while I just stand there, watching him, whatever argument was on my lips disappearing altogether. There’s no use talking to him. There never was. He got saddled raising us eight years ago, and he’s been angry at the world ever since.

I can’t say I remember him being any different before then, though. All I wanted when I was sixteen was for him to smile. Or say that I did something well. But he was always a ghost.

I don’t even think he cried at our parents’ funerals.

“Macon …” I murmur.

He removes the engine cover, turning it over and placing it on his workbench.

I speak a little louder. “Will you look at me, please?”

He dumps the bolts inside the cover and turns back to the car as if I’ve already left the garage. He hates me.

I take a deep breath and tip my chin back up. “Krisjen has no money,” I tell him. “She needs me to fix the car.”

“I’ll fix the fuckin’ car,” he growls. “Like I don’t have enough to do. Just get to work, because soon enough you get to sit on your ass all day, and you’re still gonna need money from me.”

I swallow the fucking rotten taste in my mouth, because he’s not wrong. He’s never fucking wrong, and I’m always a piece of shit.

According to every interaction I’ve had with him the past eight years, I’m all but useless.

I feel stupid enough. If I could go back and change it, I would hope I wouldn’t get into that fight. I wouldn’t have gotten drunk, let my temper get the better of me, and hurt the wrong person so badly over something I don’t even remember that I put him in the hospital.

I knew it was a mistake. I always do, but it’s like I can’t stop myself.

I’m not worried about going to prison. I’m worried it won’t change me.

“I fucked up.” My eyes start to burn with tears I fucking hate myself for. “I fuck up.”

But he doesn’t spare me another glance.

I reach into my pocket, tossing Krisjen’s keys on the table. “The alignment, the brakes,” I tell him, “the radiator is leaking, and I’m guessing the oil is as thick as mud.”

A snarl hits his lips, and I almost smile, but I don’t.

When I head out of the garage, Trace is climbing into the bed of the truck and Army’s crossing the street, minus Dex.

“Give me the keys.” I hold out my hands.

Army smiles, shaking his head, because he knows Macon won.

He tosses the keys, and I catch them.

“Don’t laugh,” I say.

“Hey, nothing to be ashamed of,” he teases. “I’m older than you, and he still scares the shit out of me.”

“And that’s nothing to brag about.”

“No, but staying alive is.”

Army starts to turn, but I spot Dallas back by the truck, stealing glances at us and trying to get the beer into the cooler before Army sees.

I pull Army’s arm, distracting him to give Dallas time. “Hey.”

Army stops and turns back, facing me.

“You need to handle Aracely,” I tell him.

He looks confused. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“She wants to be.” I pull off my T-shirt and stick it in my back pocket. “She’ll listen to you. Tell her to stop doing dumb shit, please.”

He smiles. “Like taking advantage of a St. Carmen princess?” he muses, because he knows she slashed Krisjen’s tires. “Like we all like to do from time to time? Since when do you give anyone a ride home?”

“I’m a gentleman.”

He cocks an eyebrow.

“Well, I’m the most gentlemanly.”

He snorts. “Probably true.”

“Well, no one wants me to be a gentleman,” Dallas says, coming up to my side. “That’s for sure.”

He grins at Army, our older brother’s eyes shifting between us as Dallas hangs his arm across my shoulder.

“Look.” Army sighs. “I know you’re the middle children and all, but your rebellious stages are long overdue for a fucking conclusion, so wrap it up, because I’m exhausted.” And then he flicks Dallas on the forehead. “And get the goddamn beer out of the cooler. It’s eight o’clock in the morning, and I’m not an idiot.”

He walks off; Dallas and I head for the truck.

“Can we start drinking now?” I gripe.

“Noon.” He gives my shoulders a squeeze. “It’ll give you something to look forward to.”

He climbs into the back with Trace, and I open the cab, tossing in my shirt. “God, it’s so fucking hot still. I think I’ll camp out on the beach tonight. I can’t deal with his shit for the next eight days.”

“Macon’s on my case almost as much as yours,” Dallas chimes in. “You can stick around and buffer before I have to deal with him by myself for the next three and a half years.”

“What the fuck is his problem all the time?” I say under my breath.

“It changed the moment he had to become our father instead of our brother,” Dallas says.

But I disagree. He was never a brother like Army is.

“He needs to fucking let it go,” I say. “Anger isn’t going to keep me from prison.”

“He isn’t angry.”

I turn to Trace, whose voice chimes in. He hangs his elbows over the side of the truck.

“He’s worried,” he tells me. “What the hell does Macon have when we’re gone?”

He looks past me, and I follow his gaze, seeing Macon toss two tires out of the garage. The sun beats down on his back, his head hanging like it weighs a ton.

“He has no woman who loves him,” Trace goes on. “No kids of his own running around. He has nothing but us. Liv left. You’re going,” he says to me, then looks at Dallas. “And how long are you gonna stick around without him here?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll be next, and Army will stay only because he has Dex in tow. What will Macon have to do with his life then?”

I grind my fingers into my palms.

But before I can ponder what he said for too long, I hear his low voice turn to a bite. “Oh, what the hell?”

I look up, seeing what he sees.

Milo Price walks out of the small motel next to the bar down the road.

A burn swirls in my stomach. A feeling I know well and one that I love.

He’s dressed only in jeans as he leans against a column and lights a cigarette.

The motel’s got six units, which are almost always empty, except for an hour here or there when guys like him pay to slum.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Army strolls up, tossing his tool belt into the truck.

I take a step but stop, a white nineties Mercedes-Benz convertible cruising past right in front of me. Music blasts, and Krisjen heads straight for Mariette’s, sliding perfectly into a spot right up front.

“What is she doing back?” Dallas asks.

I glance at her ex, still standing in front of the motel, and I can tell the moment he sees her. I dart my gaze back to her, but she doesn’t see him.

Dallas and Trace climb out of the bed, and I slam the door closed, all of us stepping toward the road. Krisjen climbs out of the car a hundred yards down the street, takes a kid out of the back seat, and holds their hand as she goes into the restaurant. Milo watches her, and I wait till she’s gone before I charge over to him. He isn’t welcome here, and it has very little to do with her. He’s got to be another level of stupid to think he can show his face after what he did.

With my brothers on my heels, I head straight for the son of a bitch.

He sees me coming and straightens up. “Easy, man.” A fucking smile dances across his lips. “I’m not looking for trouble.”

“Iron …” Army tries to calm me.

But I don’t listen. “You’re not welcome here,” I bite out.

Milo sucks on his cigarette, the scar my sister’s girlfriend left down the side of his face last spring still red and fresh. I’m surprised he forgot the warning to stay away with it staring him in the mirror every day.

“I paid,” he assures us.

Camilla Gonzalez steps out of the room behind him, fixing the cups of her tank top. She stops, seeing us.

“Get inside,” I growl.

Goddamn her.

She steals back into the room, and I take a step into Milo. “Stay away from our women.”

“When you have plenty of fun with ours?” He casts a look toward Mariette’s and the Mercedes parked in front of it, indicating Krisjen. He snickers. “You all want them because they’re young, tight, and clean between the legs. They giggle and wear pink, but damn, they feel good, don’t they? Your sister knew it. She loves Saint pussy, too.”

I jolt, a hand gripping my arm from behind to stop me.

“And they get wet around any cock wearing a tool belt.” Milo shakes with laughter. “But, Iron, they don’t stay. Our women need money to look that good.”

“Clay doesn’t need money from Liv,” I tell him. “And if you were any fucking good in bed, you would realize they’ll always cross the tracks for the things you can’t give them.”

He takes a drag and blows out smoke, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Did you know there’s a ring of wife swapping in St. Carmen?” he tells us. “My dad has fucked everyone’s wife. I followed my mom to a party one night where she was the belle of the ball.”

I frown.

It’s becoming easier to understand why he’s so fucked up. God, these people are ugly.

“People marry for lots of reasons,” he explains, “that aren’t about love, and they get unhappy. To keep it together, they share with one another. Within their circle, that is, because there’s no danger of falling in love or breaking up families. They’re all in business deals together, so everyone has too much to lose and enough motivation to keep it quiet.”

Is that true? They fucking pass their wives around?

Milo lowers his voice, taunting us. “I hear Jerome Watson is after Krisjen.” He grins, and something starts crawling up my throat, my gut turning to brick. “She will get so much attention as a young St. Carmen wife. Maybe down the road, I’ll get my turn with her again.”

I bite down on my teeth, and he releases a sigh, a memory playing behind his eyes. “My favorite thing about Krisjen,” he whispers, “is that she hits back.”

I launch for him, grabbing him by the back of the neck and pushing him to the ground. Motherfucker.

Someone grabs me from behind. “No, goddammit!” Army bellows, wrapping his arm around my neck and hauling me back against him.

I growl, fighting to get away, and he throws me off to the side, getting in my face.

“Stop it!” Army yells at me. “He’s baiting you!”

He turns, and I glare at Milo, knowing we should’ve fucking killed him last May.

Army points his finger in Milo’s face. “Get the fuck out of here!”

Milo backs off, toward his car, but pauses to spit on our ground. “Enjoy your last week, Iron.” He breathes hard. “By the time you get out, nothing will be yours.”

And I know exactly what he means.

We watch him drive out of the Bay, and I wipe the sweat off my lip.

Why can’t they just leave us alone? They have everything. Our land is a fraction of what it was, and they just keep coming for more.

All of this will be gone by the time I’m out.

I see Krisjen carry drinks to people on the deck, and I head for her.

“Iron,” Trace calls out.

I ignore him, watching Krisjen head back inside.

“Krisjen,” I call.

She turns her head, sees me, and rolls her eyes. “I know …” She enters the restaurant, and I follow. “It took about three seconds after you left for me to realize that I did not want to be subjected to my mother today, so I’m taking you up on your offer. But just for today.” She nods, assuring me. “I won’t be back. I mean it.”

She’s being playful, but it’s the wrong time. “Just go now.”

She turns and looks at me, and I feel my brothers stopping behind me.

“I mean it,” I tell her. “Leave.”

Someone lets out a hard breath. Probably Trace. He wants to be on my side, but he doesn’t know what I’m doing.

Krisjen frowns, straightening as we all confront her. “What’s wrong?” she asks us.

“You heard him,” Dallas tells her. “Go.”

“We’re not a fucking tourist attraction,” I point out. “Dick for you girls to ride until you’ve had enough. Slum somewhere else.”

“Iron, knock it off,” Trace barks. “Krisjen’s not like that.”

“We’re a joke to them,” I say over my shoulder. “To all of them. They use us.”

“Like you and Dallas, or any of you, were looking for love all the times you went after St. Carmen tail?” She sneers. “Please.”

“The difference is …” I walk up to her, lowering my voice. “We would marry you.”

Her chest caves a little.

“If we loved you,” I tell her. “I’d be so fucking proud if you were mine. Any of us would be. Would you show me off to your friends? Jump at the chance to live over here in the gutter with us?”

A lump moves down her throat, but her stern expression doesn’t waver. “If I ever loved any of you, then maybe.”

Dallas snickers behind me, but she doesn’t fight me further. Ripping off the apron around her waist, she grabs the little girl, who I can only assume is one of her siblings, and rushes out of the restaurant.

“No! I don’t want to go!” the little girl screams. Her sketchbook falls from her hands, her crayons still on the table.

“I’m sorry,” Krisjen chokes out. “It’s okay.”

“What did I do?”

“Nothing, honey. I’ve got you.”

Trace sweeps up the sketchbook, and we all walk after her, down the steps of the restaurant.

“Trace will deliver your Rover when it’s done,” I tell her.

“I’m taking it now.”

“It’s not drivable.”

She whips around. “Like I give a shit!”

Army quietly laughs, and I follow as she heads to her Rover, which is still parked in front of our house. She leaves her dad’s Benz at Mariette’s. Is she actually going to take her little sister home in a car that’s unsafe?

“You’re stubborn,” I taunt. “I always liked that. But no one can ever accuse you girls of being smart. That’s for sure.”

She puts her sister into her back seat, closes the door, and turns to face me. “See this?” She grabs herself between her legs. “I was born with all the tools I need to make as many sons as it takes to see this shithole burned to the ground.”

“Ohhhh.” Trace laughs.

Army snorts. “Damn.”

“Shut up,” I growl at them. That isn’t funny.

I face Krisjen. “He smacked you around? Milo? He hit you, right? More than once?”

Fire lights up in her eyes. She knows I was at the lighthouse party last spring and saw. We let Milo have it that night, not that it did much good.

I get in her face, backing her into the car. “You know what he tried to do to my sister last spring. And if you would’ve spoken up before that—about what he was like—maybe he wouldn’t have had a chance to try anything.”

“Spoken up to who?” she shouts. “The police who are hired by the city council his mother sits on?”

I glare down at her.

“Or my grandfather, who is grooming Milo’s cousin to replace him as district judge?” she says next, water pooling in her eyes. “Or maybe the school administration that accepts his family’s donations? Or my classmates who never would’ve taken my side over his? Who?”

A beautiful blush crosses her cheeks, and I can almost feel the heat of her breath as she holds the tears at bay.

“Maybe I’m stupid.” Her chin trembles, but she looks determined. “Because maybe he said all the right things one night when I thought he was all I had and I felt sorry for him.” She laughs at her own dumb thinking. “Or maybe I wanted to believe he cared about me. Maybe I was naïve and I had lofty ideas about love and thought that his having violence in him didn’t make him a bad person and the struggle would make it worth it.”

Her words wind through me. I have violence in me. I’m not bad, though. I’m nothing like him …

“Or maybe I liked it.” She smiles bitterly. “Because nothing felt good, so when it felt really fucking awful, the blood made me feel like I was surviving something. And that made me feel powerful.”

I feel the crooked bone in the middle finger of my right hand that I once broke in a fight. The left nostril that I can never breathe through because it didn’t set right after another altercation. And all the scars from all the times I lived to bleed, because it was the only time I felt strong.

“Or maybe I wanted it,” she goes on, “because then I could hit back, and Mrs. George next door to me growing up never did. No financial independence to leave with her three kids. She was so quiet, because her husband had all but killed her, and she’ll stay with him forever. And maybe sometimes I hoped Milo would take a swing just so I could swing back at him, and Mr. George, and my father, and everyone who stands on weaker people.”

A tear spills down her cheek.

She’s killing me.

“I wish you all could have all the money you ever wanted, so you can see that’s not the answer,” she says. “I liked coming here, because no one covers the bruises. Your women have their own motorcycles, and everyone’s either laughing or howling. It’s … different. I wanted friends, and you guys don’t throw people away.” Her voice lowers to a whisper, and I can tell she’s struggling not to cry. “It’s a good place.”

She turns, but I grab her. Pulling her into me, I wrap my arms around her and bury my nose in her hair.

She tries to push away. “Stop it.”

I don’t let her go. “I’m sorry.” I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling them watering. “I’m so sorry. I’m a prick. Jesus.”

She shakes in my arms, and I pull back, looking down at her.

She shakes her head, refusing to look at me. “You think I have nothing inside of me.”

“I don’t think that.”

She tries to turn, but I won’t let her.

“You’re not stupid,” I tell her. “It’s not your fault that you have a heart and tried to give it to him. I don’t even know why I went after you this morning. I’m sorry.”

I’m pissed at myself and my fucking mistakes, and I resent her family and her circle, but I like Krisjen.

She tears away from me, opening her car door. “Just let me go.”

But I press my hand into it, slamming it shut. “You’re not going back there today.”

She turns, scowling at me.

I look down at her. “I don’t want you around those people.”