by E. M. Moore
Okay, maybe threatened isn’t the word for it. They’re all trying to keep me safe while I’ve tried to do the same for them. Keeping Brawler and Oscar in the dark for so long about my true intentions was as much about keeping them safe as it was about me. Now that they know my plans, they’re in as deep as I am. It’s not what I wanted to happen.
I lick my lips, dread settling in my gut. “What about Brawler? And Oscar?”
Finn shakes his head. “I haven’t seen Brawler, and I’m not sure I know who Oscar is.”
I think back, wondering if they’ve ever met, but I guess it doesn’t matter. “So, you’ve just been talking to Johnny then?”
“He needed someone who was close to you, but not close to him. Someone who would come here for him.” Finn runs his hands through his hair. “He approached Jax and I, and I jumped on the opportunity to help you.”
I arch a brow. “But not Jax?”
“He’s just a little overprotective,” Finn says, flicking a piece of lint off his jeans.
I snort at that. “It’s fine if he doesn’t like the Crew, Finn,” I tell him. “I mean, I wouldn’t go saying anything to Johnny, but...I’m a different story. Jax doesn’t have to be afraid of me.” Finn gives me a look. “Okay, maybe not afraid of me, but he doesn’t have to be afraid of getting mixed up in Crew business. I don’t want that. For either of you. I’m well aware of why I’m here.”
Finn sighs. “Jax likes to play the tough guy, but he’s worried about you too. If he wasn’t, he never would’ve shown up.”
“Tell him I appreciate it. I really do.” I stare into his eyes, knowing that this brief interlude in my current life is about to come to an end. Finn has given me Johnny’s message, which means he can’t stay. He’ll have to heed the girl’s warning soon. “Thank you for coming.”
He dribbles his fingers across my shoes. “What do you want me to take back to Rocket?”
Without thinking, I lean forward and press a kiss to Finn’s cheek.
The flirty trainer’s cheeks blaze, crimson blooming everywhere until it hits the tip of his ears. “You seriously want me to kiss Rocket?”
I laugh, placing my hand over his. “It’s your funeral. I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to get the message across.”
Finn slides back through the window, laughing. When he peers back, he’s stoic again. “Stay safe, Princess. Soon, okay?”
“Okay,” I mimic back.
He walks away, jamming his hands into his pockets with his stare aimed at the lush green grass. I watch him until he disappears around the side of the building. My heart squeezes painfully, but I get up, force the window back down one-handed, and then retreat back to the table.
The girl comes up behind me. She doesn’t say a word, just starts where douchebag PT guy left off.
Meanwhile, “soon” is like a chorus through the chaotic mess of my brain. I wonder how soon soon is.
I guess I’ll just have to wait to find out and pray to God I get out of this mess.
The chances God listens to someone like me are slim, but I think good thoughts anyway.
2
Two weeks later, the sun shines directly into my eyes as I step outside the PT building. I squint, momentarily blinded before taking my sunglasses out of my small bag and putting them on. Luckily, the tinted lenses let me case the surrounding areas. It’s routine now. I’m not dumb enough to think Gregory’s guys won’t come for me again. However, since Finn and Jax came to see me, I’ve been extra diligent about checking the perimeter in case another familiar face shows up. Someone just waiting for me to notice them.
As has been the case for the last thirteen days, no one’s waiting or watching.
I walk over the crack-laden sidewalk to the bus stop right outside the building. Leaning against the rusty sign, I breathe in the fresh air, knowing I’ll be spending another night at the halfway house.
That’s not what it’s called. They’ve titled the place Greenlawn Reformatory. It’s not winning any awards. Not for names, cleanliness, or hospitality. It’s a place to stay, though, and the Wi-Fi isn’t too bad, allowing me to keep up with school through distance learning.
The mechanical whine of a monster engine rings in my ears, and I peek left to find the city bus accelerating around the corner three blocks away. I can’t even remember what it’s like to drive my car. I keep telling myself that when I get out of the halfway house, I’m taking my car for a nice, long drive. Just to get away.
It probably won’t happen, but it’s a daydream that keeps me sane, especially when I feel like throwing my hands up at what’s become of my life.
At least I can say I did one part of my job really well. I definitely got into the Crew. I’m all the way up in it. Being framed for murder doesn’t just happen to normal people, so perhaps I should be patting myself on the back for doing that one thing really, really well.
I mean, I would, except I still can’t rid my thoughts of the girl’s picture Detective Reynolds showed me. Knowing her life is gone… That’s just something I can’t take pleasure in.
The bus comes to a stop in front of me, and I climb aboard, dropping the bus money in the slot I’ve earned from doing various housework at the Reformatory. We’re all on a schedule, and as long as we do our share, we’re given twenty bucks a week. The older residents have actual jobs, but they’re still mandated to help out around the house, as well.
Greenlawn Reformatory is a temporary arrangement for everyone who has to stay there. I’m just hoping it’s even more temporary for me, and not because I’m getting my ass carted to prison.
Soon, Finn’s voice reverberates in my head again.
Johnny must’ve run into a snag because I doubt he’d send Finn if he wasn’t sure of the timeline. He knows I’d be going crazy here, me and my anti-Kardashian ass. The only thing that’s ended up in my favor is that the distance learning schooling I’ve been doing is far better than the shithole they call Rawley Heights High, but that doesn’t mean I miss school any less.
The bus vibrates as it runs its normal route through the streets of Haddonfield. The small, mostly industrial town is forty-five minutes away from the Heights, a stipulation of Detective Reynolds. He didn’t want me anywhere near Rawley Heights. His men trail me every now and then. I’m not allowed to leave the county, let alone the state. I’m not even allowed to contact anyone in the Heights. In fact, I don’t have access to a phone since mine was either lost in the accident or taken as evidence. Brawler has the only real phone I worry about, though, and I’m sure he’s keeping it safe for me. The phone I’m allowed to use is in Greenlawn’s living room. Fifteen-minute cap per night, and the house manager parks her ass on the threadbare sofa to listen to everything that’s said. I haven’t used my time yet. The only people I would call are currently off-limits on Detective Reynolds’ orders, and the last thing I would do is call my aunt and uncle to bring them into this mess. Since Reynolds has my fingerprints, he’s most certainly tracing the calls made out of the house.
After ten minutes of motoring through the city, my stop comes into view, so I stand, arching my neck. Today, they hooked me up to some sort of contraption that used electrical stimulation. I preferred it to the massage even though the areas where they hooked the lines up burn like hell. The best part about it was I wasn’t subjected to that douchebag PT guy today, so I’m counting it as a win whether it helps my neck or not.
I reach up, pulling down on the cord to signal my stop. The driver doesn’t need to look up because we’ve been doing this same routine for over a month. He pulls over to the side of the road right in front of a dilapidated, overgrown bus stop with glass that’s milky white from nature’s elements. The driver nods, and I work my way down the steps and start toward the block Greenlawn is situated.
I smooth my hands down over my pockets, checking to make sure my knife is in a good position should I need to use it. My cast is off now, thankfully. I don’t think it’s ready for me to start punching bags, but I sure
as fuck will use my fists in self-protection if I need.
In my room at the home, I took my bed off the cinderblocks it was raised up on and have been using the hunks of concrete to keep in shape as much as I can. It was difficult with the cast on, but I haven’t let up now that it’s off. My arm gets sore from time-to-time, but it’s healing nicely. I only hope the whiplash tweak in my neck goes away permanently. I can’t complain though. All in all, I’m lucky I’m not more injured from the accident.
I walk up the private sidewalk, avoiding the vibrant rainbows the daughter of a Reformatory resident has drawn all over the cement. I kick a hot pink chalk piece out of the way, so no one trips and falls on it and take the stairs to the rundown porch. The porch door creaks as I yank it open and then crashes behind me, the door having long since lost the contraption that lets it ease closed. I have a feeling the house manager, Jacinda, did it on purpose. No one is sneaking out of the front door of this house. Not with that noise. Windows, however, are another story. Not that I’ve tried, but I’ve thought about it a time or two.
Jacinda peeks out into the narrow hallway as I head for the stairs. “Hold up there, Samson.”
That’s Jacinda’s thing, too. She calls us by our last names like we’re already in jail.
I clench my jaw. If she thinks I’m pitching in on the housework for one of the older residents because they were pulled in to take a double shift again, she’s out of her mind. Keep in mind, I’m nearly always pissy on days I go to PT.
I move back around the corner, waiting for her reply. She motions to the kitchen, a sharp nod encouraging me to step inside as her dark eyebrows pull in severely.
I steel myself and walk forward. I’ve been trying to stay on this woman’s good side. Not that it has made a difference because she’s miserable to every last one of us no matter what our attitudes are. “Got someone here to see you,” she says, eyeballing me.
My heart kicks into gear. I try not to seem eager, but I pick up the pace, moving quickly to the outdated kitchen, decorated in sunburnt orange. Trust me, it’s as unfortunate as it sounds.
I turn the corner but pull up when I find a businessman in a suit, and not the kind of suit guys like Johnny wear in the Heights. This suit is off the rack. Probably from JC Penney’s. It’s a means to an end, not a fashion statement.
The guy’s head moves toward the sound of my footsteps skidding to a stop on the linoleum floor. He smiles at me and stands. His eyes are sharp, even if he does look like he should be living in a different decade.
“Kyla Samson?”
“That’s her,” Jacinda says in a sickeningly sweet tone I’ve not heard uttered past her lips yet.
I glance up at her, brows furrowed, but she doesn’t give me the time of day. She only has eyes for the stiff. “What’s this about?” She tries to smile, but it just looks awkward on her face. The frown she constantly wears is more her style.
The guy removes his gaze from her and greets me again. “Kyla?” he asks again.
I nod, hesitantly. I don’t know who this guy is. It could be one of Gregory’s men, a cop, or someone the Crew sent, but my money’s not on the latter.
The gentleman turns an alarming smile on the house manager. “I need to speak with my client alone.”
My back bristles at the same time a swarm of confusion settles over me. Client?
“Samson’s not allowed to have visitors.”
The guy in the suit grins. He’s all teeth, and warning bells ring inside my head. The suit is a cover-up or just poor fashion taste. “I believe you’ll find it’s alright. Feel free to check in with Detective Reynolds on the matter. Kyla?” the suit says, motioning toward the kitchen doorway.
I step through, back bristling still. I don’t like giving people I don’t know my back, so I look over my shoulder at the man following me down the narrow, dimly lit hallway.
“Your room?”
I give him an incredulous look. If he thinks I’m going to take him to my room alone, he’s crazy.
“Ahh, yes. How about we just step out onto the porch then?”
I open the porch door, listening to it scream in protest before taking a seat on the wide railing that boxes in the small porch. He stands in front of me, clasping his hands together at his waist. The first thing I notice is that he doesn’t have anything with him. No briefcase. No bag. He called me his client, yet he has no evidence that we’re doing business here. I sweep him again for any bulges that could be a telltale sign of hidden weapons, but I don’t see any.
Comforted a little, I try to unlock my muscles to appear relaxed. “It’s time you told me who you are,” I nudge after he doesn’t say anything for the first few moments.
The wind tracks a piece of hair over my face, so I bring it back around, tucking it behind my ear and wait for his response.
“I’m Mr. Lordson, attorney for Rocket Enterprises.”
I recognize the name—obviously—but I don’t show any outward signs to that fact, even though my heartbeat starts to pick up. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Mr. Lordson.”
“He’ll be pleased with that response.” Mr. Lordson reaches into one of his interior pockets, a smile playing over his cracked lips.
I still, unable to figure out if he’s reaching for a weapon or something else.
He notices my reaction, so he lifts a finger to tell me to hold on a second. My fingers itch to grab the contraband knife I won off another resident from my pocket, but I resist. Finally, it pays off. Mr. Lordson pulls a white packet from his pocket. He takes it in his hands, smoothing it out. With a grin, he passes it over to me.
I take it, instantly recognizing the logo of the hot chocolate I love. I crush it in my fingers and slip it into my pocket. I nod at Mr. Lordson to go on, instantly relaxing. This guy is a friend.
“Now that we got that settled...” He takes a seat on the wide railing with me. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he runs it over his forehead before putting it away. “I’ve been working with Mr. Marx from the beginning of your...delicate situation.” He takes a deep breath, resting his hands casually on his thighs. He’s older than a lawyer I would’ve pegged the Crew hiring. His hands are weathered and wrinkled, but with those wrinkles probably comes a hell of a lot of knowledge. “I’m here to tell you that not thirty minutes ago, DA Schneider has decided not to press charges against you for the death of Dominique Jenkins due to lack of evidence.”
A whoosh of air releases from my lungs, and I grip the railing with my hands. I’m not being charged with murder. I don’t think I’ve ever heard more glorious words.
Mr. Lordson nods. “They had your fingerprints on the murder weapon, however, just because your prints were on the weapon doesn’t mean you pulled the trigger. The eyewitness—”
“Bogus eyewitness,” I interrupt, silently seething. There’s no way there could’ve been an eyewitness because I definitely didn’t shoot that poor young girl. The whole thing has reeked as a setup from day one.
The corners of Lordson’s eyes crinkle. “Well, he has changed his tune, much to the dismay of Detective Reynolds and the DA.”
I can’t even feel bad about the possibilities that come to mind regarding how the Crew handled that situation, considering the fucker was lying in the first place. “So, not enough evidence?”
“Not at this time,” Lordson says. “In cases such as this, they’ll usually wait to acquire more evidence. They don’t want to charge you formally if there’s any possibility a jury wouldn’t convict.”
His words burn my brain. Something similar was uttered to my aunt and uncle about Big Daddy K murdering my parents, though I suspect that was just bullshit. They were too scared to go after him and what he represented. As far as my case goes, I suspect it’s a lot more accurate. “So, it’s not over?”
Lordson shakes his head. He glares at the peeling paint that surrounds the picture window. “I’m afraid not, Ms. Samson, however, since they’ve decided not to pursue you at the mome
nt, you’re allowed to leave this place. In fact, I believe—”
The attorney cuts off just as a sleek black car pulls up to the curb. My mind whirs. He’s here. One of them is here. Someone is here.
For me.
The car parks and sits there, idling. The damned tinted windows don’t give any indication in regard to who’s inside, and I can barely keep myself together.
I stand on shaky feet, and Mr. Lordson stands with me. “Just one last word, dear. That Detective Reynolds is one persistent SOB. As your lawyer, I need to inform you to stay out of trouble. I have a feeling he’ll use anything he has against you, and you’re not out of the woods yet. Should other evidence arise, you could be right back here. Or worse.” He waits until I move my gaze away from the car to meet his. “Do you understand?”
I hold out my hand. “I do, Mr. Lordson. Thank you for your work on this.” He keeps his gaze on me like I should be promising him to stay out of trouble, but I can’t possibly promise that, can I? Sitting in that car—no matter who it is—is trouble. Just for the very fact that I’m probably on my way back to the Heights tonight means I’m moving back into the fire.
But I’m doing it anyway. I miss them. All of them.
The time away has made one thing very clear to me. My initial goal is still at the top of my list. Big Daddy K will suffer at my hands; however, I have a dream that comes in at a close second. I want to leave here with all of these guys who are too good for the Heights, whether they know it now or not.
Which means, I have to share some hard truths with Johnny. In time. If I walked up to him now and told him I had feelings for other guys, he’d kill them. I know it as much as I know the truth in my heart that I can’t walk out of the Heights without him either.
Now I just have to figure out how to do everything I came here to do, while keeping my budding relationships intact.
3