Ben picked up the package.
“Wait.” Jacob held out the shaving cream. “Make sure you get the gel kind. Unscented.”
Ben carried the supplies with him back into the bathroom.
The door clicked shut, and Jacob exhaled the breath he didn’t realize he’d held.
This was going to be a very long morning.
6
Yvette followed the man named Logan Hues from the motel where Marcel’s whore and Alexander’s bastard son resided.
Once again, Marcel’s House had swayed the rules in his favor. But they always favored their own.
Yvette didn’t care what any of her family claimed; Sicarii were a disease. Too many good people, powerful families, had fallen at their hands.
All because they appointed themselves dictator over all others.
Yvette was tired of it. Tired of all of it. Especially tired of Marcel.
As long as both men wore Marcel’s mark, Law dictated she could not touch them or interfere in their lives; their family, friends, acquaintances were technically off-limits.
Oh, there were ways Yvette could kill them, and it be untraceable to her. But there was nothing to be gained, no terror to be instilled, when the reason for their demise wasn’t obvious to the one she wanted to punish.
If Yvette wanted Marcel, she had to force his hand. She had to make him break Law, defy the Justices, act without approval.
Then his people would be forced to cull him from the herd. No Sicarii, outside of an imminent threat, could act without consent from their House.
Drawing blood without instruction resulted in death.
Known threats had to be named, approved, and marked in the books in order to be within the Laws of retribution.
Yvette knew this because her family name occupied a line. The result of Ivan’s actions.
The broad coverage meant any relative, no matter how distant, and their associates were constrained by Law. Acting against it would bring them before the Justices. Running meant they’d send their Sicarii.
But if Yvette could encourage the actions of a stranger to her people, one not listed in the books as a potential threat, Marcel would be bound by Law and unable to act.
His pets would die, and there would be nothing he could do about it.
If he did react, even in the moment, the Justices would put him on his knees in front of a full court where Yvette could present his past transgressions as proof of his instability.
Destroying him would prove to everyone the Sicarii were not untouchable. That their game of control could be turned against them.
And Logan Hues was the key she needed to turn.
The ugly Cadillac pulled into the parking lot of the Starlite motel. It wasn’t much better than the other place, except for the manicured grounds and apartment-style rooms on the backside.
Logan drove around the building and parked at a corner spot in front of a unit.
Yvette pulled in beside him. She was on the sidewalk before Logan opened his room door.
“Is there something you need?” He turned, the movement shifting his jacket. The butt of a handgun flashed in his waistband.
“I’d like to discuss a business matter with you, Mr. Hues.”
He frowned and scraped his gaze over her. “You a cop?”
“No, Mr. Hues, I am not the police.”
“You one of Tony’s people?”
“No. I am not connected to any of your current…business associates.”
Logan’s mouth stretched into a slow grin. “You looking for work, then? I don’t normally manage girls, but I’d make an exception for you.”
Yvette leveled a look at the walking hunk of human garbage only good for a bullet. “No. I am not interested in working for you. Rather, I am interested in you working for me.”
Logan laughed and turned back to his door. “Sorry, babe, I don’t turn tricks.”
He slipped his key card through the slot, and the reader beeped.
“And I don’t run prostitutes.”
He stopped. “I’ve already got a dealer.”
“Or drugs.”
Logan furrowed his brow.
“Fifty-thousand now, fifty-thousand when the job is done.”
Logan’s eyes glittered, and he made a show of opening his door and moving out of the way. “Sure, step into my office and we’ll talk.” He even gave Yvette a little bow.
She slid by him, brushing past the curtain over the slate glass window and stopped next to the TV in the living area.
The small sofa and chair matched the carpet, which also matched the pictures bolted to the walls. Logan’s cheap cologne saturated everything.
He entered the kitchen in the back corner, where an assortment of liquor bottles occupied the counter next to a microwave. “You want something? It’s all top grade.”
“I’ll have to pass this time.”
“Your loss.” Logan poured several shots into a regular drinking glass. “So, this business you want to discuss.” He propped a hip against the counter and drank. “What is it?”
“A collection, of sort.”
He swirled the liquid in his glass. “I’m listening.”
Yvette took a picture out of her suit jacket. Ben wore a wary expression as he watched Marcel’s house. “I need you to pick up this man.”
She walked over and laid the photo on the counter.
Logan picked it up. “I know this guy.” He stretched his mouth into an ugly grin. “Yeah, pulled a gun on me almost two weeks ago.”
And according to the men Yvette assigned to watch the motel, Logan had run with his tail tucked between his legs.
“What do you want with him?”
“Fill him up with your drugs, whore him out, I don’t care.”
Logan furrowed his brow. “Wait, you want to pay me to make money off his ass?”
Yvette gave the man her politest smile. “I suppose I am.”
Logan set the picture back on the counter.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Hues?”
“People don’t ask you to make money off their marks.”
“Then don’t. You can always take him to a nice backroad and put a bullet in his head.”
“What’s the catch?”
“There is no catch.” At least not one he’d ever see coming.
Logan shook a finger at her. “Yeah, I can see it in your eyes, there’s a catch.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint.”
He flicked her another suspicious glance. “Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“There’re at least a dozen hired guns in this city. Yet you come to me when my reputation doesn’t even suggest that’s my gig.”
“You are very perceptive.” Yvette smiled in the sweet way that got the attention of men like Logan.
He lifted his chin and smoothed down the strands of his bolo tie. “I’m good at what I do for a reason.”
“And you are discreet.”
He puffed up his chest.
“I need someone trustworthy, Mr. Hues. Someone who knows how to keep their mouth shut.”
“It’s good business.”
“Then we understand each other.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Fifty thousand up front and the rest when I complete the job?”
“Yes.”
“You know another thing about being a good businessman?” Logan swirled the amber-colored liquid in his glass. “It’s to know the value of your product.” He twisted his mouth. “Seventy-five up front, then the balance.”
Yvette had expected him to try and negotiate. “That’s asking a lot, considering I have no idea if you’ll complete the job.”
He shrugged and slipped the photo into his pocket. “Yeah, well, sweetheart, I don’t know your ass from Eve, so how do I know you’ll even pay the balance?” Logan returned to the lines of liquor bottles and added another few finger’s worth to what remained in the glass. The neck of the whiskey bottle tapped against th
e edge. Then he tried to replace the lid, and it jumped out of his grip, bouncing against the counter. He swept it up and turned away but not fast enough to hide the distrust in his eyes.
Logan might have been a bottom-feeding leach, but he obviously had instincts that told him when something was too good to be true.
Lucky for Yvette, even the most cautious of petty criminals caved to their greed.
“Fine. Seventy-five up front.” Yvette folded her hands at her waist. “Then the fifty-thousand for the balance.”
“Who said fifty-grand was the balance?” He lifted his chin.
Yvette tightened her jaw. “Do you have a number in mind.”
“Yeah.”
Yvette waited.
Logan’s ugly grin returned. “A hundred grand.” He sipped his drink.
Did he give that number because he thought Yvette was really that desperate or because he hoped she’d say no?
Then, maybe a hundred and seventy-five was as far as his little cockroach brain could go.
Logan drained his glass.
“Agreed,” Yvette said.
Logan froze for several heartbeats before setting down his glass with exaggerated care.
“Will cash be acceptable?” Yvette took three envelopes from her purse.
Logan followed the path of the packages to where Yvette dropped them on the coffee table.
“Mr. Hues?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He licked his lips and walked over, eyes still glued to the money. “Cash is…” He picked them up. Opened the first. The second. The third.
“You’re welcome to count it, but I promise you, it’s all there.”
He brought his gaze up. Again, greed and self-preservation battled it out. Not that there’d ever been an answer that would ensure his survival.
He tucked the money into the pocket of his cheap suit. “Just tell me when you want it done.”
Predators could always sense when prey animals were weak. Sickness, disease, injury, and apparently those who confessed to their mother they were gay while serving ice cream at his sister’s slumber party.
Or maybe it was all in Sam’s head, and the girls in the corner weren’t whispering about him. The jocks at their lockers looked past him and not at him. Mrs. Spence, a ninth-grade English teacher, didn’t stop mid-sentence to track Sam’s progress as he wove in and out of the sprinkling of students on their way to the gym for an afternoon pep-rally.
What if it wasn’t a pep-rally for the next away game? What if it was Mr. Briggs standing at a podium announcing to the entire school Sam was gay?
“Hi.” Roshan clutched a couple of library books to his chest. He wore loose blue cotton pants and a shirt patterned in orange, gold, and blue highlights.
It was perfect, draping him in languid lines and stunning autumn colors.
Roshan’s smile faltered. “Are you mad at me?”
Sam blinked several times. “What? Why would I be mad?”
“You just didn’t look very happy to see me.”
Sam dropped his shoulders. “Sorry. I’ve just had a lot…”
Two girls walked by with their heads close together, taking quick peeks in Sam’s direction. They giggled and hurried away.
Roshan dropped his chin. “I’m sorry.”
Sam looked at him. “What? Why?”
Another group of students about tripped over themselves to stare in their rush to the gym.
Nope, it wasn’t Sam’s imagination.
Roshan turned to leave.
Sam grabbed his arm intending to say “Stop, wait” or some combination.
A couple of guys in Varsity jackets stopped. One laughed, then they all did.
Sam glared.
They stopped.
He kept glaring until they were gone, yelling faggot at him as they headed out the door at the end of the hall.
Roshan’s dark golden skin turned a shade closer to red.
“Ignore them.”
“I try, but…” Roshan adjusted the books in his arms.
Sam held open the door, and they went outside, stopping under the covered sidewalk.
Roshan stared at the gym.
“Do you want me to carry those?”
Roshan glanced down at the books in his arms. “No, they aren’t that heavy.”
Sam started walking.
Roshan fell in step beside him. “I’ve never been to a pep-rally.”
“How did you manage to escape?”
“First school, I left before they had one, the second one I started after their first one.” Roshan frowned a little. “Are they fun?”
“Eh.” Sam shrugged. “I guess it depends on your definition of fun. C’mon, we need to hurry, or we’ll be late.”
“They give detention for missing pep-rallies?”
“No. It’s just if we’re late, we’ll get stuck on the bottom row.”
“And that’s bad?”
“Depends on who winds up sitting behind you. Just make sure to check your hair for spitballs or worse, gum, or just plain spit.”
Roshan stopped; Sam did too. “You don’t have to do this.” Roshan hiccupped.
“Do what?”
“Be nice to me.”
“But I like you. A lot. I even told my mom.”
Roshan widened his eyes. “You told your mom?”
“Yeah.”
Roshan inched closer, and Sam risked a step, and the other boy stayed with him.
“What did she say?”
“She was happy for me.”
“Oh.” Roshan smiled. “That’s nice. That’s really nice.”
“I didn’t think she would be.”
“Why?”
Sam huffed out a breath. “Because my best friend in the whole world wasn’t.”
The long tails of Roshan’s tunic flipped in the breeze. Leaves chased a soda can into a gully. The first drops of rain speckled the windshields of cars in the student parking lot.
Even though it would guarantee them a seat on the bottom row, Sam opted for the long way around, following the covered sidewalk so they wouldn’t have to walk in the rain. Plus, it gave him more time alone with Roshan.
“I’m glad your mom was okay with…everything.” Roshan stared so hard at the top book in his arms, Sam was sure any minute it would smolder.
“Me too.”
They were almost to the gym when Roshan stopped again. He stared at the double doors with worry.
Shouts and cheers came from the other side, accompanied by oldies from the 90s.
Sam didn’t want to go in there either. Not because he was ashamed of Roshan but because there were people in there who’d hurt him, and this would just give them one more reason to destroy his books and trash his clothes again.
“Would you mind if we skipped the pep-rally?” Sam said.
Roshan blinked. “You don’t want to go?”
Sam waved a hand in the direction of the gym. “And listen to that music? I think I just turned thirty standing here.”
Roshan laughed, then sobered. “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are we going to go?”
“Is that everything you need to take home?” Sam nodded at the books Roshan held.
“Yeah. I haven’t gotten replacement texts yet, so I’ve been reading online to keep up. And using the library.”
“Then let’s go.” Sam took Roshan by the elbow.
“We’re leaving?”
Sam led Roshan around the back of the building. “What? You’ve never skipped school before?”
“No.”
They emerged from the awning.
“Have you ever skipped?” A fine mist coated Roshan’s black hair in silver stars.
“No. I mean, unless I count the two days I stayed home sick and wasn’t sick.”
“If your parents knew, I don’t think that counts.”
“Then, no. I guess this is my first time.” Sam realized too late how that sounded. He hoped Roshan didn’t. Nothing showed
in his expression, so Sam was pretty sure his possible Freudian slip had gone unnoticed.
They reached the fence going around the edge of the football field.
“Where are we going?” Roshan eyed the chain link.
“My secret hangout.” At least it had been. Once upon a time, the dock over the frog pond had been a hangout for Sam. Usually, in the spring, when he and Joe were freed from school obligations. Over the years, they’d visited less and less. Which was fine.
Considering how much it changed from season to season, it would practically be a surprise for Sam as much as Roshan.
Sam scaled the three-foot fence and dropped to the other side. “Hand me your books.”
Roshan did. “I’m not sure I can climb over it.”
“You can practically step over it. You’re, like, a foot taller than me.” Not really, but Sam barely came to the other boy’s shoulder. “Just hike up your—” What did Sam call the long shirt with its slit sides?
“Kurta Pajamas.”
Sam made a face. “Pajamas?”
“It’s not the same kind of pajamas people sleep in.” Roshan tugged his shirt up and held it in place by zipping up his jacket. He put the toe of his shoe into the weave of metal fence and gripped the top.
“Just push with your other foot. Like getting on a horse.”
“I’ve never ridden a horse.” Roshan pushed but only got himself waist-high. He dropped to the ground again.
“C’mon. I know you can do this.”
Roshan bit his lip and tried again. This time he managed to swing his leg over.
“There you go.”
He started to lift his other leg and stopped.
“What are you waiting for?”
“Uh…” Roshan closed his eyes. “I think I’m caught on the fence.”
Caught on the fence?
“My pants.”
Sam searched. His legs were free. When he looked up, the red in Roshan’s face had darkened.
“Oh.” Like an idiot, Sam stood there.
“Can you turn around a minute so I can try and get unstuck?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.” Sam did. Fabric shuffled, and Roshan muttered. Sam waited. The mist turned into droplets, and he pulled up his hood.
“I don’t think I can get free.”
“Do you want me to help?” Sam turned.
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