Stone Cold Queen: Sick Boys Book 2

by Smoke , Lucy

  "You're not funny," she grumbles as she drags a fresh coat of eyeliner across her eyelids, using the mirror on the back of her closet door—a cheap thing sealed there with some sort of crazy gorilla glue. Tossing the eyeliner into the makeup bag she threw at my head, she glares at me. "Let's go, asshole."

  "You got it, bitch," I reply.

  Together, the two of us leave the room and descend to the first floor. Rylie scowls when she notices the SUV waiting at the front of the dorm, but she doesn't say anything as I walk towards it. Dean turns his head and arches a brow at his uninvited guest as I nod Rylie towards the backseat, and I reach for the front passenger side door.

  Why am I doing this? I wonder absently. Letting Dean dictate where I go? It's not like me.

  My head pivots slowly towards him, and I watch him curiously. Even I can't seem to find the answer in my own brain. Is it because of what he and the others know? One wrong move, and they can send me to prison for the rest of my life. Even if Roger Murphy was a piece of shit menace to society, the judicial system doesn't take kindly to killers—not if they don't have money.

  Or is it because I still have that craving for adrenaline, and Dean satisfies it? That seems more probable. Being around Dean Carter, waiting to see what he'll do next, is damn near as intense as the high of cliff diving. Remembering his thick, pierced cock between my legs, his hands around my throat sends a rush of eagerness I wish I didn't feel down my spine. I don't want to desire him the way I do. Yet, I can't help it.

  If he notices me staring, he doesn't react to it. Almost as if his head is in a whole other world, he ignores both my fixation on his face as well as Rylie's presence in the backseat. And when we pull up to the Frazier House—I should've known that's where the party would be—he pulls around to the side of the driveway opposite the line of cars. He drives in far enough that the SUV is out of immediate sight and parks.

  "Let's go," he says, pulling the key from the ignition and gets out of the vehicle. He rounds the car as I jump down, and Rylie's door pops open. Without even being asked, she takes one look at him as he steps up alongside me and heads for the front of the house to wait. I almost want to call her a traitor, but she doesn’t go far, and I don't really blame her—after all, I'm sure Dean looks like a fucking wrathful god to most people. While he intimidates the hell out of normal people, all he manages to accomplish with me is making me hate both him and what he does to my body.

  I sigh as he steps in front of me, blocking my view of Rylie as she waits several yards down the side drive. "What do you want, Dean?"

  He lifts one of his hands and touches the end of my braid, twining the strands of dark hair around his finger. "Do me a favor tonight, baby?"

  My eyes roll. "I'm not your fucking baby," I say. "And what makes you think I'll do anything for you?"

  "Fine then." He moves closer. "I was trying to be nice and just ask for this favor, but if you want to be such a fucking brat, then I’ll make it a command."

  Tension seeps into my bones as his other hand touches my waist and then pulls me into him until I can feel the hard length of his cock against my stomach. My upper lip curls back, and I put my hands on his chest, intending to push him back. He leans closer. "No fires tonight," he says. "I don't care how much someone pisses you off. They fuck with you, you come get me, and I'll deal with them."

  Shock echoes through me. That is not what I'd been expecting to come out of his mouth. He doesn't give me an opportunity to reply, though. His head swoops down, and he presses a shockingly hot, open-mouthed kiss to my lips, and it's only then that I find the strength to shove him back.

  "Don't press your fucking luck, D-man," I snarl.

  He coughs out a chuckle. "Oh, pretty baby," he says. "Lady luck ain't got nothing on you."

  I scowl and turn away from him, stomping towards where Rylie waits. She lifts a brow, as if asking what that hell that was about, but I just shake my head. "I need a fucking drink," I mutter. "Let's go."

  The party inside is already well underway. This time, there's an indoor dance floor. It's no more than a large open space in one of the many large rooms on the bottom floor, but it's there nonetheless. It's where girls and guys gather to grind against one another as the sounds of rock and rap thrum through invisible speakers.

  "Kitchen," I mutter, though Rylie can't hear me. That'll be where the drinks are. I find it easily enough since this isn't my first time here. Beer is readily available, but I have the feeling tonight is going to be a hard liquor kind of night.

  "Rum?" Rylie arches a brow as I find one of the glass bottles set out on the counter and pour a hefty dose into one of the available red solo cups.

  I shrug and offer it to her. She shakes her head and instead goes for one of the brown single-serve bottles on the side. Her eyes widen as she reads the label, and I absently hear her mutter, "Fucking rich people," before popping the lid and taking a sip. A chuckle works its way up my throat. I can't say I blame her assessment.

  Outside, people mill about—drinking, swimming in the heated pool, and making out on the patio furniture. "Avalon!" My head turns at the sound of my name being called, only to stop when I realize who it actually is.

  Corina is dressed—or rather undressed—to kill in a skimpy white bikini. Her breasts are pressed together by a tight halter top that has an open circular ring clipping the two sides together, leaving very little to the imagination. She hurries across the patio towards Rylie and me as we step out of the backdoors.

  "Where have you been?" Corina's chest pumps up and down as she comes to a standstill before me.

  I arch a brow. "Why the fuck do you care?"

  Shock blanks out her features as she catches my irritation. This bitch is the reason I'd been at Luc Kincaid's beach house in the first place, and I'm not stupid enough to believe that she hadn't flaked on me for a specific reason. Had Kincaid paid her off somehow to get me there?

  "I'm gonna go to the bathroom," Rylie suddenly announces, eyeing the two of us. So much for having the presence of a friend around me. Then again, I watch as Rylie glares at Corina right before she whips around and reenters the house.

  Without a glance back, I start to walk away.

  "Wait, wait! Avalon, please!" Corina's hand comes down firmly on my arm, and I freeze.

  "I would advise that you get your fucking hand off me, Cor," I state through clenched teeth. "I'm not in the best of fucking moods, and I have no sympathy for a back-stabbing cunt."

  "What are you talking about?" Corina insists. "I heard about you leaving the Eastpoint beach house—I've been trying to get ahold of you for weeks since we got back."

  "You knew where I lived," I point out.

  She shakes her head, the wet strands of her brownish blonde hair flitting back and forth across her cheeks. "I thought that'd be creepy if I just showed up at your dorm."

  I narrow my eyes in suspicion. "I don't fucking trust you," I finally say.

  Tears fill her eyes. "I-I don't know what you want me to say, Avalon," she manages to choke out. The tears are more annoying than the wobbly tone of her voice.

  My gaze falls to the solo cup in my hand, and without a second thought, I tip it back and down the full thing. Fire spreads through my body, and for a second, I think I might throw the whole amount back up. Surprisingly, it stays down. I cough and choke and huff as I work to swallow past the burn in my throat. Corina's eyes widen, and she reaches for me. I shove her back a step. "The truth would be a good start," I snap, dropping the cup on a nearby table. "Did you or did you not know that Luc Kincaid would be at the house when you took me there?"

  "Well, yeah, but I didn't think he had any interest in you," she confesses. "I didn't think it'd be a problem."

  "And do you know about Kate?" I ask.

  "Kate?" A frown mars her perfectly done up face. Her makeup must be waterproof because even with the pool water still fresh on her skin and the tears dangling from her lower lashes, there's no evidence of smudging.

  "Ka
te and Luc," I clarify, waiting to see her reaction.

  In my peripheral vision, I can sense some of the party-goers watching. Is this what the Sick Boys have to deal with day in and day out? As if they're on some sort of Big Brother episode where every movement they make, every word that comes from their lips is being watched and analyzed? It's more than annoying. It's infuriating.

  "I know that they're together," Corina says carefully.

  "Cut the fucking bullshit," I order in a sharp tone. She jumps, her shoulders shooting up towards her ears as her eyes widen once more. "What the fuck do you actually know?"

  "I heard that you and Dean got into an argument, and you left," she rushes to say. I scoff and turn away. Fuck, I need another drink. I shouldn’t have downed mine. "Wait, Avalon, please. What's wrong? What did I do? I thought we were friends."

  Is she for fucking real? I whip around and glare at her when she nearly collides with me, only stopping at the last second. "Friends?" I hiss. "We're not fucking friends. You used me to get what you wanted—an in with the Sick Boys. You wanted gossip, and I don't know why you fucking took me to that fucking party—"

  "No, no, no," Corina says quickly. "You've got it all wrong. Sure, I mean, yeah, I was curious as to why Dean took such an interest in you, but I didn't know Kate and Luc were planning anything. I swear to you." She looks up at me pleadingly. "Please, believe me."

  I don't. More than that, I don't want to. I'm sick of liars and thieves and people who manipulate and take just because they can. "I'm sorry," she says. Finally, the tears hovering on the corners of her eyes begin to fall, streaking down her cheeks, and hell, I find out I was right. Her makeup is waterproof as shit because not a single black mark mars her skin. "I do want to be your friend."

  "Why?" I demand. What is it she's really after?

  She hiccups out a laugh. "Are you kidding me?" she asks, making me arch my brows. "Avalon, you don't fucking care what anyone thinks about you. You went up against the Sick Boys, and I don't know if you won, but you certainly shook them. You're a force to be reckoned with. Why would I do anything to hurt you?" She shakes her head as if the mere idea is absurd. "You're just as scary as the Sick Boys." Corina takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. "I-I know that Dean doesn't like me," she admits. "I know that he doesn't trust me because of my connection with Luc Kincaid, but I didn't ask my mom to marry into the Kincaid family, and my last name is still Harrison. Not Kincaid. I go to Eastpoint. Not St. Augustine. That's for a reason. When I find a friend, I'm loyal. I swear to you, Avalon, I wouldn't knowingly betray you."

  I don't know if I believe her. She's right, though. Dean doesn't like her. I've noticed that much. Does that mean that I shouldn't? Rolling my tongue through my mouth, I press it to my cheek as I consider what to do.

  "Fine," I say eventually.

  "You believe me?" She presses her hands together and looks up at me with such hope in her eyes.

  I shrug in response. I don't. Not even a little bit, but I also don't want to deal with this anymore. It's a party, and I'm already fucking tired of the people. Where the hell did Rylie go?

  "Does that mean you'll actually answer my texts now?" she asks.

  "I've got exams to finish," I reply evasively.

  "Oh, right. You're finishing up that dual enrollment program. Does that mean you're going to transfer to Eastpoint as a full-time college student now?"

  I scowl, but there really is only one answer. I've already signed my name over to the devil, might as well admit it. "Yeah..."

  She squeals and jumps up and down. "Oh, that's wonderful," she professes. "That means we'll have more time together. Oh, Avalon." She leans forward, hands outstretched to take mine, and when I jerk my palms out of reach, she doesn't even flinch—though she does pause. "I mean..." She hesitates. "If you want." Corina looks up at me through her lashes. "Everything with Dean is good now, right?"

  I just stare at her.

  "Or ... um, yeah, that's none of my business. It's cool." She takes a step back, her head turning back towards the pool. "I guess I'll just, um, go for another dip. You're welcome to join..." Her eyes turn to my outfit—no bathing suit in sight. A sigh erupts from between her lips. "I really hope we can be friends, Avalon," she says. "And really, I truly am glad you're staying at Eastpoint." She backs away.

  I don't return her halfhearted wave as she turns back to the pool, her shoulders slumping in dejection. She only gets a few steps before she stops and turns back. "Wait!" she says, nearly tripping—unlike her—as she rushes back to me. I lean away as she stops before me once more. "I almost forgot. I don't know if Dean or anyone else has told you—even I don't know if it's true and I'm his cousin—but there's a rumor going around about Luc. He might be transferring to Eastpoint over the summer."

  My lips part in surprise. No. No one has told me that, I think. Suddenly, I'm looking at Corina in a new light. Maybe staying her friend isn't all bad. She does seem to be an influx of information even without realizing it. "Thanks, Cor," I say quietly. "That's good information to have."

  She practically beams. "Of course! I'll see you later. Have a good time at the party!" With that, she turns around and heads back for the pool, and I pivot towards the Frazier house's back door.

  9

  Avalon

  I sit against the far wall of one of the rooms, watching people mingle with a new drink in my hand. It's interesting to watch a completely different group of people than I'm used to seeing interact with each other. It's fascinating, the similarities I see in wealthy college students versus dirt poor kids from a backwoods, drug-dealing town. They live such separate lives, and yet the same greed lights their eyes.

  It's as if everyone is screaming 'look at me,' 'pay attention to me,' or even 'love me.' It's both pathetic and incredibly sad. The sharp, spicy taste of rum touches my tongue as I tip my head back and swallow another mouthful. Straight. Just like earlier. Rylie's disappeared off somewhere, and I can't even be mad. She made me promise not to abandon her here, but she never said she couldn't leave me. Oh well, I guess I'll just go looking for her when I'm ready to leave.

  Speaking of ... a familiar face appears in the crowd around me, sliding through with ease. A chain dangles out of the crew neck of his dark-colored t-shirt. When he gets close, all I want to do is grab it and drag him closer until I can see the charcoal black dead centers of his eyes. I want to see if the fires of hell really rage there.

  "How many of those have you had?" Dean asks as he takes a seat at my side, gesturing to the nearly empty cup.

  I shrug. "A couple." Truth is, I don't remember. I don't even know how long it's been since he brought me here.

  Dean snags the cup and tips his head back as he drowns himself in what's left of the alcohol. My eyes fixate on the movement of his throat, watching as the muscles move with each swallow. One. Two. Three. It's all gone. He drops the cup to the side, and I scoff.

  "Just going to trash your friend's house?" I ask.

  He arches a brow at me, unconcerned. "He doesn't live here."

  He leans closer until his arm is pressed to my side, and all I feel is his heat. Burning through my clothes and deep into my skin just like that night at the Eastpoint estate. I bite down on my lip and cut my eyes his way.

  "You're such an asshole," I mutter, shoving up from the couch. Despite the alcohol, I don't wobble or sway as I head out of the room.

  I shouldn't be surprised that by the time I hit the hallway, his heat has trailed me. "This way," he urges, directing behind me, pointing towards the stairs.

  "What's up there?" I ask as his hand finds my hip and steers me when I don't immediately follow his lead.

  Dean's head dips against the side of my throat opposite of my braid, and he presses a chaste kiss there. Fuck. Just the feel of the delicate skin of his lips against my flesh makes goosebumps break out. "You'll find out," he whispers. I jerk away from his hold and start walking. He's not far behind.

  At the top of the stairs is a hallway.
Dean moves me towards the far end, the last door on the left. As the door opens and we step through, I realize it's an office of sorts. More of a library, but there's a giant oak desk in the middle with a glass pane over the surface to protect the wood. Behind that desk is a large set of windows with the curtains drawn back. Lights from the backyard sweep into the room, and I smirk at the mess someone's left behind.

  "Looks like we weren't the only occupants in here tonight," I say with a quiet laugh, flicking my hand out for the half empty bottle of amber liquid—whiskey by the looks of it—set on the corner of the desk next to a lamp.

  Dean doesn't say anything. One second he's at my back, quietly closing the door, and the next, he's in front of me, filling my visions—sight, sound, smell. I should've known. I did know. I'm not an idiot. There can only be one reason why a man like Dean Carter brings someone into seclusion—it's either to torture and kill them or fuck them. Sometimes, I wish he would be more intent on the former rather than the latter when it comes to me. Hell, sometimes, it is.

  "Avalon..." His hands cup my face as he stares down at me. "When are you going to stop fucking fighting me, baby?"

  I groan and slap his hands away. "Do you ever think of anything else?" I snap. He drops his arms and takes a single step back. I take that as my opportunity to put some distance between us. I round him and head for the desk, picking up the bottle and popping the lid.

  "Do you really need to drink anymore tonight?" He must be re-thinking the idea of a drunk Avalon. I smirk as he turns and scowls at me. I prop my hip against the desk and tip my head back, the mouth of the bottle at my lips.

  "Nope," I pop off as I swallow down a mouthful. Ugh. Definitely sour. Not nearly as good as the rum had been earlier. "But I could use a partner." I hold the bottle out to him, waiting to see what he'll do.

  He eyes me for a second, the intensity of his gaze tracking every minor movement I make, from the fluttering of my lashes to the pulse jumping in my throat. Cataloging my tics? I wonder. Or trying to figure me out?