We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

  I blink awake, groaning in pain.

  Whatever they hit me with must’ve been heavy, because it knocked me out cold. My head is pounding like an anvil’s been dropped on it.

  I attempt to feel the lump forming beneath my hair, but my hands aren’t cooperating. They aren’t moving at all, in fact. Dazed, I open my eyes and discover both my wrists bound to the arms of a dining chair with several layers duct tape. No matter how hard I tug, they don’t loosen.

  Fuck.

  “So, Sleeping Beauty is finally awake,” a man says, crouching down to meet my eyes. I recognize him from the parking lot; Rico, the shifty-eyed gangster who threatened me after practice. “I was worried Barboza caused permanent brain damage.”

  A low grunt reverberates from my left. My eyes follow the sound to his partner, the hulking giant. He looks ridiculously oversized amidst my parents’ aging dining room set.

  “Disappointed we haven’t heard from you, kid.” Shaking his head, Rico makes a tsk sound. “Thought, after our last little talk, you understood we weren’t overflowing with patience.”

  “I haven’t seen my brother.”

  “Well, that’s a damn shame.” He pauses. “For you.”

  Barboza steps forward, cracking his knuckles menacingly.

  “What do you want from me? I can’t force Jax to appear,” I say, trying hard to keep my voice steady. I don’t take my eyes of those massive fists, coming ever-closer. The feeling of them around my neck, cutting off my air supply, is burned forever into my memory.

  “We know that. We aren’t unreasonable.” Rico laughs lightly. “That’s why we thought Jaxon might need a little… incentive… to pop his head out of whatever hole he’s hiding in.”

  I gulp in a breath. “Incentive?”

  “Mmm. Say… his little brother ends up in the hospital with a terrible injury.” His head tilts in thought. “Or… maybe his mother steps out into traffic. Women can be so clumsy, can’t they? I’m sure he’d attend the funeral.”

  My hands curl around the arms of the chair. “If you even think about going near my mother I’ll—“

  “What? Kill me?” Rico laughs. “I like your spirit, kid. We should’ve recruited you instead of your shithead brother.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  Rico smirks. “The thing is, what I think doesn’t matter. It’s not going to make a damn bit of difference to our boss. He’s been real patient so far… but his patience is about to expire. If Jaxon doesn’t start clearing his debts soon, we’ll have to collect from his family. Which is your family, ese.”

  “Is that what all this is about?” I scoff. “Money?”

  “Your brother owes us a debt.”

  “How is that possible? He’s been behind bars for two years. I seriously doubt he’s been racking up a balance at whatever establishment you work at.” My lips twist. “Let me guess — underground cockfight ring? You two look like you enjoy a good cock.”

  Barboza takes a step closer. His voice rumbles like a freight train. “You got a smart mouth, kid. Happy to shut it for you — permanently.”

  “Barboza, chill.” Rico spins one of the dining room chairs around and sits on it backwards, facing me. “Life on the inside isn’t like out here — all rainbows and glitter and sunshine. Jaxon took protection from the Kings to avoid becoming someone’s bitch. He knew that protection came at a price.”

  The Kings.

  The Latin Kings.

  Jesus Christ.

  My eyes drop to the tattoo on Rico’s neck. The five-pronged crown — an irrefutable symbol of one of the most notorious gangs in the Boston area. I should’ve put two and two together before. I should’ve realized that these were no mere ex-cons seeking payback for jailhouse beef with my idiot brother, or enemies he pissed off before he went away.

  They’re members of the Latin Kings.

  The world of crime is about as far-removed from the quietude of Manchester-by-the-Sea as I can fathom, but word of their violence is widespread enough to reach even here. The gang dominates the local news channels these days — nervous reporters detailing the recent uptick of deaths in the city, police speculating a change in gang leadership. Someone new in charge, with a penchant for killing.

  Ma watches while she cooks dinner, clutching at the cross around her neck as images of gore play out on the television screen.

  Drug busts.

  Carjackings.

  Kidnappings.

  Murder.

  No matter how many sting operations the Boston Police Department conducts… no matter how many gang members they arrest… none of it has much effect. Every time they cut off the head of the monster, another seems to spring instantly back in its place.

  Needless to say, these are not the kind of people you want to mess around with. Not if you value your life.

  If I could get my hands around Jaxon’s throat right now, he’d be a dead man. I knew he was in trouble — enough to scare him off the grid, enough to make him warn me of the fallout heading for us a few weeks back, pale-faced and shaking as he packed a bag in the middle of the night. I had no idea he’d gotten himself entangled with something like this, though.

  If I thought it would help, I’d call his parole officer myself. But sending my own brother back to jail won’t protect my family from this. Not the heartbreak of losing him all over again; not the repercussions from men like Barboza and Rico.

  If they’re brazen enough to break in during broad daylight, knock me unconscious, and duct tape me to a chair… they’re not going to back off just because I get the cops involved. If anything, that’ll just piss them off further… and put my family in even more danger.

  I clear my throat, trying to keep the panic buried. “I don’t know how much Jax owes you, but you’re not going to find anything of value here. Look around — look at where we live. It’s not exactly the Taj Mahal. We don’t have anything to offer you.”

  Rico scratches absently at the pockmark scar on his cheek. “Bet that big house up on the point has plenty.”

  My heart skips a beat. I take a deep breath, swallowing down my fear and fury. I make sure my voice is very level when I speak. “The people that live there have nothing to do with my family. We just work for them. I’m sure you know that already.”

  “Mhm.” Rico stares me down. “You seem pretty tight with that girl.”

  My heart stops entirely. “Who?”

  “The blonde with the legs.”

  “Her?” I snort incredulously. My heart pounds a mad tattoo. “She’s nothing but an obligation. A stuck up brat, like the rest of the kids at my school. My parents used to make me drive her around. That’s it. If I never see her again, it’ll be too soon.”

  My words hang in the air between us, heavy with deceit. I can’t tell if he believes me. He doesn’t say anything. He merely runs a hand over his buzzed head, his eyes narrowed in thought.

  “Speaking of driving… that’s a pretty shiny truck you’re cruising around town in. You know, for a kid without any money.”

  “You want my truck? Fine. Take the damn truck,” I offer, feeling desperate. “But that makes us square. You leave me and my parents out of this from now on. No more threats. No more unexpected drop bys. Stay away from us.”

  Rico grins at his partner. “He thinks he can negotiate. Isn’t that cute, Barboza?”

  Barboza does not look particularly tickled by my gall. As far as I can tell, the man has exactly one facial expression — an uncompromising, unflinching stare, delivered through soulless eyes. Violence emanates from his skin like perfume.

  “The thing is, kid…” Rico blows out a breath. “Our boss wants more than just money from Jaxon. Your brother has some connections in this neck of the woods. Connections we’d like to absorb into our network. You feel me?”

  I stare over his shoulder at the cabinets on the other side of the kitchen. My jaw is locked so tight, I can barely breathe.

  Drugs.

  Of course this is all about drugs. I
t always is, with Jax. Before he was sent to Cedar-Junction Correctional Institution, he was a part-time dealer, full-time junkie. Life with him in this house was erratic at best. I never knew which version of him I was going to get — the loving brother I grew up with or the drugged-out monster who’d hijacked his body.

  Growing up, Jaxon was constantly in trouble — first with my parents, then with his teachers, later with the local cops. His crimes escalated with age, from smoking pot in his bedroom to getting busted with a stockpile of pills in his sock drawer to full-fledged dealing at every high school party.

  You want Oxy? Adderall? The best pot on the East Coast?

  Talk to Jaxon Reyes.

  Truth be told, I was relieved when he finally got arrested two years ago. Locked up, at least he’d be sober. At least my parents wouldn’t have to watch their child slowly killing himself anymore. At least I wouldn’t live in the constant fear of walking into his bedroom, finding him overdosed on the carpet.

  After looking the other way on petty misdemeanors for years, when the police pulled him over with a trunk full of narcotics, they’d finally had enough. They threw the book at him.

  Drug possession with intent to distribute.

  A felony.

  At nineteen, he was tried as an adult, slapped with a $20,000 fine (paid by Jo’s parents, since mine couldn’t afford it), and sent to state prison on a three year sentence. With good behavior, Jax shaved it down to two before getting released on parole.

  I never visited him while he was in there. I couldn’t bring myself to. I was too angry at him for throwing his life away, for fragmenting our family beyond repair. For making Ma cry into her pillow every night; for making Pa grow still and silent under the weight of his own grief.

  Not that they’d ever hold it against him. They still loved their son. Every Sunday, they made the long drive to Cedar-Junction, two hours round-trip just for a few shared moments behind plexiglass. They’d come home with red-rimmed eyes and tell me how well he was doing, how healthy he looked — proud of him in the way only parents can manage, even after their kid fucks up immeasurably.

  Jax was different, when he came home two months ago. Older. Colder. And clean. His eyes were clear. His temperament was even. For the first time since I was ten years old… I thought I might get my big brother back.

  I should’ve known it would never last.

  “Jaxon has a lot of product to move,” Rico tells me bluntly, snapping my focus back to the present. “So far, he’s not holding up his end of that bargain.”

  “My brother isn’t dealing anymore. He’s sober. He served his time. He’s trying to start over.”

  “Is that what he told you?” Rico shakes his head. “Then he’s a liar. Someone with his ties to this world can’t just step away from it. Not ever.”

  “You make Jax sound like some one-man drug cartel, not a small-time dealer.”

  “Give credit where it’s due. Before he got busted, your brother built his own little empire up here. At nineteen, he was moving so many pills, we heard about him out in Springfield.” Rico’s pupils are pinpricks. For the first time, it occurs to me that he might be high. “The Kings have been trying to expand north for years. But this area is a hard nut to crack from the outside. We need someone with a foot in the door.”

  Enter: Jaxon.

  I shake my head in disbelief. “A handful of pot-smoking, pill-popping rich kids can’t possibly be worth all this effort. I’d think it’s hardly worth your time.”

  “See, that’s where you’d be wrong. These rich kids you speak of, the ones with bottomless wallets and access to Daddy’s credit card… they’re the biggest untapped resource this side of Boston. But if someone like me or Barboza tries to sell to them, they’re more likely to call ICE on our asses than actually buy what we have to offer.”

  “So you think Jax is going to be… what? Your liaison to the trust fund set?”

  “They know your brother. They trust your brother. He’s not some homeboy off the street. If he tells them to try the latest, greatest designer party drug, they’ll fork over any amount of cash to snort it up their noses.” Rico pauses, staring at me. “If your brother won’t step up… maybe you will. We can give you a tryout, kid. Find out if dealing runs in the family.”

  “I won’t,” I say flatly.

  Before I can blink, Rico whips a gun out of the waistband of his jeans and presses it to my face. “You will if we say you will. Understand?”

  I flinch against my bindings, but they hold fast. My lungs seize as fear overrides every one of my senses. I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t speak. I can’t do anything at all except stare at the sneering face inches away from mine.

  The cold metal barrel presses harder into my cheek, indenting the flesh. “I asked you a question, kid. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” I rasp, my words garbled.

  “Excellent.”

  The gun disappears as quickly as it appeared. Tucking it back into his waistband, Rico pushes to his feet, crosses to the countertop, and grabs my keys. He tosses them playfully into the air. They jangle as they land in his hand.

  “Much as I’d like to take you up on your offer of new wheels, I’m in a generous mood. You can keep your truck — for now. Just don’t think about using it to leave town.” He pauses. “We’ll be watching.”

  Barboza grunts his agreement.

  “And kid — I hope you’re smart enough not to call the cops. If you do… your brother’s as good as dead. Wouldn’t bode too well for the rest of your family, either.” Rico grins. “Wonder if there’s a bulk discount on caskets?”

  Jesus.

  “I won’t call the cops,” I promise in a voice hollowed out by fear. “I won’t call anyone.”

  “Good. And when you do see your brother… make sure you tell him about our little visit to his childhood home. Make sure he knows, if we have to visit again, we won’t be so nice.”

  Flicking open a stiletto, Barboza slices off my duct tape bindings. I wince as the blade nicks the sensitive skin inside my wrists, leaving thin trails of blood behind.

  I’m free, but I don’t move.

  Not an inch.

  Not a muscle.

  “We’ll see you soon, kid,” Rico calls as they head for the door. Their heavy boots thud across the porch. “Count on it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  JOSEPHINE

  For the rest of the week, I achieve the impossible.

  I mange to avoid Archer.

  At school, I make myself scarce — switching out my books at strategic times when I know the hallways will be empty, spending free periods in the Creative Arts wing working on my sketches, eating lunch in my car. At home, I stick to my side of the estate — lounging at the pool, sailing around the islands, hitting tennis balls on the empty court, studying for the upcoming AP exams in my bedroom.

  I do not go back to the boathouse.

  For all I know, Archer is avoiding me as well. He’s in no rush to make amends, that much seems clear from my lack of texts, phone calls, and drop-ins. He’s undoubtedly busy after school, his schedule packed with baseball games and extra practices. With the regular season winding down, I’m sure his coach is already prepping for the start of playoffs next week.

  Friday night marks the final game against Exeter’s biggest rival — St. John’s Preparatory School, the all-boys academy a few towns over. Our team is bound for the State Championships regardless of the final score, but the Exeter vs. St. John matchup is always a big event. Half the town turns out to tailgate, their faces painted green, bodies plastered with Exeter paraphernalia. Everyone even loosely associated with the academy attends — alumni, students, staff.

  Everyone except me, that is.

  No way am I going to sit in the bleachers and cheer Archer on to victory. Not when we’re so at odds.

  By Thursday afternoon, the impending game is all anyone can talk about. I weave through clumps of students in the hallways, listening to
the chatter with a detached sort of acceptance.

  You’re going tomorrow, right?

  Reyes is going to crush it!

  St. John’s is going down this year.

  Do you have your tickets yet?

  I spin my locker combination, wishing I hadn’t forgotten my headphones at home.

  “How’s it hanging, Valentine?” Ryan asks, planting his shoulder against Kenny Underwood’s locker as I’m exchanging my textbooks after lunch.

  “No complaints, Snyder.”

  “Ouch! Did you just last-name me?”

  “You last-named me first!”

  “But everyone calls you Valentine.”

  Not everyone.

  I shrug and shut my locker. “Do you need something?”

  “Why yes, now that you ask.” He grins widely. “I desperately need to know where you’ll be sitting tomorrow night. Want to make sure I can find you in the crowd. I didn’t see you on Tuesday at our away game.” He waggles his eyebrows as he leans in, whispering conspiratorially. “And, trust me… I looked.”

  My cheeks heat. “I actually didn’t go to Tuesday’s game.”

  “Seriously? I thought you came to all our games. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you miss one.”

  I laugh in surprise. “I had no idea you took such careful notice of my presence these days.”

  “Oh, I’ve been noticing you for quite a while, Valentine. That, I can assure you.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint.”

  “You could never disappoint me.” He pauses. “That said… I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

  “Uh… actually…”

  “Don’t tell me you aren’t coming! I was counting on you to cheer me on. And Tomlinson’s having a party afterward to celebrate the end of the season. One last rager before we head to playoffs. You can’t miss it.” His expression becomes almost bashful. “I thought… when the game ends… we could drive over together. And then I’ll bring you home afterward. At a reasonable hour, even — Scout’s honor.”

  I blink, startled. I may be socially stunted, but even I know that in teenage-boy-speak, attending a party together is a big deal. A prelude to an actual date. Foreplay to the foreplay.