by Elena Monroe
My sweet old Grams just admitted to letting my parents be some painful memory, because now, even if I wanted it, there was no closure to have.
A car between two trees in the woods?
Caskets with no bodies?
The cops not solving anything?
None of this made sense, and I was spinning so much I was dizzy—so dizzy I couldn’t bring myself to ask about my dueling last names before I fled. I wasn’t much of a runner or that dramatic of a person, but I had an itch in my bones that told me if I don’t move something bad will happen, so I pulled away from Grams and busted out of her front door.
My shoes hit the pavement at a speed I didn’t ever use. I kept running until I came to the cemetery with the iron fencing and the tombstones perfectly spaced on the lush green lawn.
My heart pounded, rattling everything inside me, and the tears were running down to my chest. Somehow I managed to get over the stone wall where the iron fence faded and stopped. I went on the hunt for my parents' empty graves.
Their graves were wood and dirt, not holding any piece of my parents. It was just a piece of land with their names that I avoided like the plague, because feeling like this was just too hard.
Now I felt silly looking down at the engravings. This was just a place. It wasn't supposed to be them or hold my feelings hostage; it was just dirt.
Now, I didn’t even know the truth. The truth was some elusive bullshit hidden from me.
Fuck justice before starting any wars. I was going to find the truth, even if it meant starting a war.
VIC
All roads that lead to Justice are dead ends. I spent my entire weekend trying to get answers to all my burning questions and was met with the sound of metaphoric doors closing in my face.
I was exhausting every connection I had through phone calls and emails. It only took me roughly a few hundred people to conclude that my dad must have put out cease and desist orders to everyone I could get my greedy hands on.
Rockefellers played dirty, and my dad liked to remind me exactly how much he was the better version of me.
Sunday mornings, I normally slept in, didn’t leave my penthouse, and ignored everything about my life I didn’t like, which was all of it. I wasn’t Vic the Dick, the Golden Boy, or even someone who could get you what you needed to end a war for the right price. Normally Sundays were my days to be myself, but Justice was robbing me of the truth, the win, and now the only day of the week I liked.
Putting on a sport coat physically hurt as I tugged on it until it was perfectly in place, just like the mask I had to put on next, because I was going to church. Yep, church. Fucking church.
We weren’t Satanists—not that anything was wrong with that. Believe in what you want, I don’t give a fuck. I don’t believe in anything. Myself included.
We’re all just here getting fucked by life, and, hey, if you like it enough, maybe life won’t get bored and keep fucking you.
My car purred, and I swallowed the dread lodged in my throat. We were all forced to go to church every Sunday until we turned eighteen, painful as it was. Even at Servants of Patmos, we had our own chapel in the back of the property solely for us.
Pushing my foot down on the gas, I sped out of the garage below my building and headed for the church our families all attended every Sunday like clockwork. You didn’t have to guess where they were from nine to noon on a Sunday; it was routine. This church, on the outskirts of LA, was a holy grail to the Clave.
Every big decision, every big move, was brought to the church and our fathers would pray on it until the answer was clear.
I don’t know who they were praying to, when it was clear everything holy this world had to offer was destroyed, and all that was left was cursed and doomed.
Whoever ran the show had to be dead if they left us with fake gods, like Zeus and Hades, trying to pull the strings like the world was a yo-yo.
The Clave used to be between the four families and the church; that was it. I wasn’t even sure when the Clave swapped absolute power for two brothers who were as stable as James Warren Jones, the infamous cult leader who directed a mass murder suicide with spiked punch. Now everyone was drinking the Kool-Aid.
I didn’t care who thought they had power; between the four of us we were a fucking apocalypse.
No guidance.
No asking permission.
No questions.
Pulling up to a place you avoided since eighteen is a weird feeling. It’s self-inflicting torture in the least, and the opening of old wounds at its best.
The black gothic church stood tall and cast a shadow over the sidewalk, where I parked along the curb. I had planned it perfectly. I would only have to sit through fifteen minutes, at most, of the service before the priest called it quits. I needed to confront my father face-to-face, if I wanted to control any part of the conversation.
That’s how he liked it, luring you into his den of snakes.
Closing the car door behind me, I jogged up the stairs, leading to the doors inside. I would be making an entrance, but I was sure my stepmommy would be thrilled to see me here enough for the whole room.
Slipping inside once the door creaked open, I found my father sitting in his usual seat towards the front. Six years later, and he was still occupying the same pew, right across from Grimm’s family. Khaos and Bowen’s families were directly behind them.
I was hunched over when I stood next to the pew, waiting for my father to scoot down. He wasn’t the kind of man to scoot anywhere, not even down a church pew to make room.
Finally, I stood there long enough that he felt obligated if he didn’t want to cause a scene of whispers rumbling around us.
As soon as I sat down, he asked me in a low voice, “What are you doing here?”
“I told you, we need to talk about that file.” I answered as the bowl was passed around, and I fished out some cash from my wallet.
Churches don’t take plastic, how inconvenient.
“And I told you, there’s nothing to talk about. Her file is simply incomplete, Victory.”
I handed the gold bowl behind me to Krosby DuPonte, Khaos’s dad, giving him a small smile. There were rules for that kind of thing. Respecting the four fathers was basically rule number one, along with each rule brought to the table by the four families.
No distractions.
All Clave meetings and events are mandatory.
All marriages arranged.
Death before dishonor.
We were blazing through breaking all of the rules, and no one was stopping the mutiny after Grimm, so now they all seemed up for grabs.
“It’s not incomplete, and you know it. We don’t drop the ball like that unless it’s on purpose.”
My father stood filing out of the pew and reuniting with the other attendees as they passed sacred blessings to each other. It looked like rubbing elbows with less ass-kissing.
“I am not discussing this in the church, Victory. Know your place. You’re letting some little girl best you in front of me.” His voice pricked my skin as it soaked up his insult. “I recommend you fire her, if she’s this much trouble for you. You need to stay focused. Filling my shoes would be hard for anyone, but for you, it’s much harder.”
His features were steeled with his anger and disappointment in my caring so much about this. Believe me, I was disappointed too. I was letting her tease me with being able to keep up, to wage a war against me, and her smirk was ingrained in my mind when she won over me. She was a clear distraction.
My father was right. Filling his shoes was impossible, and I was growing smaller every time I put effort behind solving the mystery that she was.
Angry with myself, I exited the church, pushing the door open with so much force I thought I broke it when I heard it slam against the wall. The sunlight burned my eyes, making it hard to see, and now I was literally blinded by anger.
I already hated myself for not living up to my father and his impossible demands. I don
’t even know why I tried to keep up the facade of being the Clave’s Golden Boy. It was as fake as my father’s love for me.
And I didn’t even hate him for the new family, for running my mother out of town, or the standards I had to meet. I couldn’t hate him, because I was too busy hating myself and what I let all those circumstances turn me into.
I wanted to rip the mask off and burn it all down. If I couldn’t be someone I loved, then no one was going to have me, including the Clave.
Of course, life is full of complications that keep me from swiping the match to ignite like Justice. If I wanted to solve her mystery, I was going to need the Clave to do it, since they’re the ones who covered it up to begin with.
I had wars and battles all around me that forced me to strategize in order to win. I just had to solve Justice to win the war.
My step mommy placed her hand on my arm carefully and whispered between us as my dad joined the others, “You know how he is, Vic. Slow and steady wins the race with him.”
Taking my arm back, I stared at her, like how dare she touch me, and I watched her good intentions drop to the floor.
“Is that how you managed to get his attention, slow and steady to win the race? Did you watch my mother fade into the background until you could dig your claws into my life?” I bit out the words and didn’t even let myself absorb another victory. It wasn’t worth it when the prey is that easy to break.
Sliding into my Porsche, I turned the key slamming on the gas pedal, heading to the gym I belonged to. I knew I needed to swim off the tension, even though my mind was stuck to Peace Corps—a kind of tension you can’t swim off.
She was a kind of attack you don’t see coming that leaves you permanently disfigured, forever reminded of her.
Next, I could only anticipate dying at her hands like Richard III was killed at the Battle of Bosworth or Henry V was hit in the face with an arrow at the Battle of Shrewsbury.
Pulling up to the gym that housed the pool I swam in a few times a week, the valet ran out to the curb to hop in where I had vacated. I left the keys in the ignition and took two steps at a time to get to the front door quicker. The blonde behind the desk perked up, tossing my last name slammed against a Mr. with an afternoon delight smile my way.
I was guilty of fucking her in one of the available rooms when I felt like it.
Sex was the only thing willing to fit inside the space only available for hating myself. Maybe it was the role playing or the unavailability my cologne smelled like when I fucked someone I wasn’t sticking around for.
Sex had a weird way of filling space meant for love.
I threw her a pity smirk and headed to the lockers in the back down by the pool. The locker room was empty, but it was a Sunday, not many people worked out on a Sunday—not on a day designed for rest. The combo to my locker always jolted back memories of Patmos, my first stolen victory, 9-27-13.
The day I decided the kill was worth the gold.
I stripped right there without any qualms. I wasn’t shy. I was blessed with a big dick and a mouth that was equally as overwhelming—both deserved to be on display as much as possible.
Pulling up my swim trunks that were tight and barely existent, I plucked my goggles from my locker before heading out to the Olympic size pool. As soon as the chlorine and ammonia hit my nostrils, I took a deep inhale, letting it fill up all the places sex left behind unfilled.
Gold. Sex. Chlorine. That was what I was made of, purely and wholly.
Stepping onto the block of a clear blocked off row of water, I jumped in, gliding against the water and shooting halfway down the pool in one dive. All that water and the time I was under, it should have felt like drowning, but it felt like living down there. Everything glassy and distorted if you just opened your eyes.
At least it was real, realer than the world above the water. Everything is a little distorted, but we cover it up with bullshit, masks, love, sex, power, and control. All of it covering up how distorted we truly are.
The only way to make a clear picture is to be empty of everything and full of yourself. Nothing to distort it.
I sunk to the bottom of the pool by sheer force and sat with my legs crossed, looking at everything around me with new eyes. I didn’t want to solve Justice because it meant winning. I wanted to solve Justice, because she felt like she was the only kind of peace I could manage in my life.
VIC
Monday was never a day I liked—it came right after the most saintly day of the week—and not for a lack of trying. The world took Sundays as a day to be lazy instead of sinful. I could barely get laid by one of the five girls in rotation on a Sunday, but on a Saturday night? I had to fight them off my dick.
I was always most vengeful, most arrogant, mostly all bark and no bite on Mondays.
The office was empty like normal when I poured in with my Starbucks in hand and Justice’s file never too far from me. Switching the lamp on my desk, I sat down to contemplate work that needed to be done, like fulfilling Dante’s orders, going over payroll, and making sure we turn a profit from all our sinful ways meant to keep the world on our strings.
The Clave force feeds the world it’s sins, and we make all the moves we need to in order to tip the scale in our favor.
Starting in on the dozen emails that needed my attention, I heard the unmistakable sound of boots rustling against the hardwood floor. Even her boots dragged ass, not wanting to be here.
Sitting up straighter, I cursed myself for letting her dictate how I present myself, even though every part of me buzzed around her. I felt alive, and I liked it.
Beats the living dead boy dipped in gold I played every other day.
My eyes shifted to her standing in the doorway with a coffee in her hands too. “At some point, Abi is going to stop being a caged animal, right?”
Grimm never referred to her with some kind of childish nickname, so it took half a second longer to catch onto her words.
“She’s not a caged animal, unless that’s what Grimm wants her to be. It’s not my problem. All I had to do was supply some blood,” lifting my hand, I showed her the scar across my palm, where we all cut ourselves for him to be happy.
Just imagine how many people would need to cut themselves for me to be happy? An army? A whole royal line?
Justice pranced over to my desk all curious, and her ass perched on the edge, taking my hand in hers. Her gentle fingers traced the scar diagonally on my palm that healed in a way that still looked puffy. It completely ruined my perfect outside with this hideous reminder that loving someone could conquer all, just not me.
“Did it hurt?” Still tracing my palm that I didn’t pull out of her touch yet.
“Of course it did. It was a sharp knife,” I retorted to her silly question.
I watched her fold down, and her lips met my palm, kissing the scar. “Maybe it can stop hurting now.”
I envied her optimistic flower power mentality that kissing things could make them better, just like putting daisies in the barrel of a gun would make it suddenly not so violent.
“Kissing things doesn’t make it better…” My words hissed in the air.
Sliding down my desk, she pushed my keyboard back. Still holding my hand, she obstructed my vision completely. “What are you doing?”
“Proving it to you. Kissing does make things better… It’s giving a piece of yourself to someone, hoping it makes them better.” Her palms pressed into my thighs, and she leaned forward, pressing her lips to mine in a slow, very PG kiss.
When she pulled away, my lips puckered chasing hers, when she whispered, “See? Tell me you don’t feel better.”
Standing, I pushed my way between her legs and let my hands cage her in, just like she referenced before. Leaning down into her, my chest dipped when my lips caught her neck. “No, I feel distracted, not better. Hating myself doesn’t get cleared up with a simple kiss, Peace Corps.”
Her legs wrapped around mine, pulling me further between her legs
, as much as the desk’s edge would allow. Her fingers unbuttoned each button on my shirt slowly and carefully, like speed went hand in hand with healing kisses.
“Maybe if you were yourself, instead of this corporate asshole, you wouldn’t hate yourself.” Her lips pressed against my skin, lowering as much as she could with each inch revealed with her unraveling me.
“You wanna heal me, baby? Put your mouth around my cock.”
Her mouth fell open, and her hands undid my belt with expertise I wanted to be mad at. Who else wore designer belts that she knew her way around? Surely not the piece of shit mad at her for drawing every guy’s eye in that venue.
“That’s a band aid, Vicy,” she quipped, and I felt my hips still waiting for her touch. It was a band aid, my favorite kind too.
“Let’s play wounded soldiers and doting nurses. That’s an oldie and goodie.”
“Anything to not be yourself, huh?”
She smirked like she had me all figured out, and I wanted to destroy her for it. I was ravenous for her and hated her all at once. I was playing both sides of the battle, like I was exempt from losing if I just didn’t choose a team.
Lifting her off the desk, I held my hands under her ass, and her legs wrapped around me tighter when I set her down on her feet. Her clothes were in my way, and I wanted to defile her in a way that I knew she might not like. I was determined to have every part of Justice in return for her figuring me out.
“Take your damn pants off.” My husky voice rang into her ear when I spun her around, facing the floor to ceiling window that was brushed with the sunrise between the buildings. The orange hues were the perfect backdrop to this peace treaty.
She shimmied out of her jeans until they hit the tops of her boots. It was all the room I needed when I spit on my hand and swiped it between her small ass cheeks. She pressed her cheek and chest into the window, while pushing out her ass with no protesting.
“Just go slow…” She finally made a sound that wasn’t her shaky breath.