by Smoke , Lucy
There's no clear path for me to take here. Nowhere for me to go. He made sure of that. Those stupid Sick Boys and their goddamn controlling ways. I want to wrap my hands around Dean’s throat and strangle him right now. He's the worst of them all. Brax, at least, had seen it—the barely contained freakout that I'm currently having. It's difficult to keep under wraps even now that I'm away from their place.
Their mansion. Where I'm supposed to live now. God. For the first time in my life, I think I'm going to go out and get drunk. Not just drink for fun, but get fucking wasted the white girl way. I want to be stumbling and slurring. I want to forget this weekend. I want to forget seeing Patricia for the last time, and I want to forget Dean Carter if only for a few hours.
I just drive. Winding the car in and out of traffic, no destination in my mind except away. The gas tank, which had previously been full, slowly ticks down until over a quarter is gone. The sky starts to darken and street lamps come on as twilight approaches. I glance down at the dash and realize it’s been hours. I’ve been fucking driving in circles for hours, and my anger somehow still hasn’t receded.
I should turn back and find a place to sleep for the night. I’ve got an exam tomorrow and two more I have to make up online tonight, but nothing seems more important right now than forgetting. I need an outlet. I contemplate how good my chances are of getting a fight tonight. I’m kind of wishing I’d kept the money for the ones before, but at the same time, I don’t. That’s not what the fights are about for me. The money, however, sure could have come in handy right about now.
My phone beeps in my back pocket, and I yank it out as I slow to a red light. Dean’s name pops up on the screen, and it’s not the first message. I must not have heard them, but there is a list of messages from him and Abel. Missed calls, too. I scowl, tossing the phone to the floorboards on the passenger side, out of my reach. I really do need a drink, I think. Maybe more than one. Anything to keep me from going back to Dean’s house and running him over with Brax’s car.
I'm already halfway back to the campus when I cut the wheel to the side and pop a u-turn. Going back to Eastpoint isn’t going to help me right now. Forget the exams. Forget Rylie—who fucking helped. I just know it. How else would Abel and Brax have gotten into my dorm room? No, she's in on it. If only to save her own hide.
I ignore the logical voice in the back of my head that reminds me, they didn't need Rylie to get into my dorm room. Dean had gotten in once before when Rylie had been there with me. I don't want to be logical right now. I want to be angry. And drunk. Drunk and angry, and that's what I'm going to be.
Less than ten minutes later, I pull up in front of Urban and stare at the brick fronted building. I check the clock on the dash once more. It's not open, and it won't be for another few hours, but when I glance to the side and note the cars in the parking lot, I know there are a few employees here already. Well, then. It's time to make Dean start paying—literally. His family owns this place, and I'm about to get fucking trashed on his dime.
The car door slams behind me, and I don’t even bother locking it. I head towards the plain-looking door. What do you fucking know, as I reach for the door handle and yank it open, it appears unlocked. Lucky me.
Seeing the inside of Urban without all of the lights turned down and a DJ blaring loud ass music across the open space is a lot like Dorothy looking behind the curtain in the Wizard of Oz. All of the magic of clubs is gone, and left behind is a mostly empty bar. A cleared out, somewhat clean black dance floor on a platform, and a row of stools pushed close to the bar top. I book it over as a tall, slender girl with her black hair yanked into a ponytail at the back of her head so tight it looks like it hurts is adjusting the wall of liquor bottles.
She turns and pauses, eyes wide when she spots me as I take a seat. “We’re closed,” she says with a scowl.
“I don’t care,” I snap. “Tequila. Now.”
When she just stares at me, I raise a brow. “Are you stupid, or do I need to spell it out for you?” I ask her. Again, all I get is a stunned look. She glances to the side, seeking out another employee possibly for help. I snap my fingers in front of her face. “Hey,” I say. “Focus. Give me tequila, or I’m going to go back there and get it myself, and lady, God fucking help you if you get in my way.”
As if pulled by a puppeteer’s strings, she reaches for a bottle of José Cuervo and sets it on the bar top before reaching beneath the counter and producing a shot glass. She pours a shot and then slides it to me.
“We really aren’t open,” she says again. “I could get in trouble—”
“You’re not going to get in trouble,” I assure her. I pick up the shot and down it in one go. Fire races through my throat. Behind me, I hear a door open and booted feet on the floor. The girl looks up, and her eyes widen, but since she doesn’t tell whoever it is they’re closed, that can only mean it’s one of them. The stool at my side creaks as whoever it is takes a seat, and I turn towards them, intending to tell them to fuck right off. When I see who it is, however, I groan and turn back for my next shot. I would’ve expected Dean or Abel, not Braxton. He’s the one I feel the least angry with right now.
“Leave the fucking bottle,” I snap when the bartender eyes me as she pours another shot and slides it my way. She pauses, her eyes flicking to the man at my side.
“Do it, Stacey,” Brax orders. “Her drinks are on the house.”
Of course they fucking are. It’s the least they fucking owe me after tearing my life to shreds and leaving me with nowhere else to go. I snatch the bottle up and finish pouring my own damn shot—the third one of what will likely empty the entire bottle by the end of the night—as she warily sets it down. “Thanks, Stacey,” I mock as she skitters away. I must be a threatening presence because it doesn’t matter who’s with me; if it’s one of the guys, the girls always stick like glue—trying to weasel their way into their graces and their beds.
I pour my fourth shot after swallowing the third and set the bottle back down. My lips are already starting to feel numb. Braxton doesn’t say anything as I put the glass to my mouth and throw my head back. I lick the rest of the tequila from my lips. It’s better with salt, but I was in too much of a hurry to start the process of getting drunk to think of that beforehand.
Braxton remains quiet, and I’ll be fucking damned if it doesn’t set me on edge. The feel of his eyes on me, his penetrating gaze scouring over my flesh, makes my body tighten and my teeth grind against one another. If it were Dean, I’d already be over his shoulder and being hauled out of the club. If it were Abel, I probably wouldn’t be hesitating over that fifth shot as I listened to him talk me to death. Braxton’s different, though. He can keep his mouth shut when it matters, and in this moment, I’m almost grateful that he’s the first one to find me.
He picks up the tequila bottle and arches up on his stool, reaching behind the bar to produce a second shot glass. He pours himself a shot and then me. I stare at that fifth shot, though, wondering—a little belatedly—if this was even a good idea.
I’m nowhere near calm, but alcohol dulls everything. It doesn’t heighten it the way I usually like. I couldn’t get an adrenaline high right now even if I tried. My teeth scrape across my lower lip as I reach for the shot. Braxton takes his, pours a layer of salt on his hand, licks it off, and downs the clear liquor. A moment later, he’s back over the bar, reaching for a lime.
A smirk forces its way to my lips. “Pussy,” I mutter.
It takes him a moment to reply as he sucks the life out of his lime before laying its carcass on the bar. “You got something against pussy, Ava?”
“Nope. Not at all, psycho-boy.”
He chuckles at the nickname.
"So, what do you want?" I ask, tipping my head back as more fiery alcohol slides past my lips, down my throat, and into my stomach. "Did he send you after me?"
"He's pretty pissed that you took off," Brax says by way of answer, snatching the tequila bottle from my grasp as
I go to pour a—well, shit, I've lost track of how many shots I've had. Damn.
"He's not the only one that's pissed," I counter, watching his hand deftly turn the bottle on its side as liquid fills his glass. He sets the bottle down, and cool hazel eyes land on mine as he downs the shot. "How'd you find me?"
Brax grins, setting the glass down, and arches a brow at me. "You going to be mad at me if I tell you?" he asks.
That's when I know. He doesn't have to say the words, he already told me. "The car," I growl. It was exactly how they'd found me in Plexton—the Mustang had been chipped.
"Yup." He pops the word on his tongue and chuckles at the dark glare I send his way.
"Why are you here?" I demand, growing more irritated.
"Figured you wanted to be alone," he comments.
I shoot him a look of incredulity. "So, I ask again, dumbass, why would you follow me if you know that?"
He shrugs. "Didn't say that's what you needed."
I pick up the tequila bottle and turn it over, refilling my glass. "You know," I say lightly, "I could probably shove this bottle up your ass."
Another chuckle leaves him. His fingers close around the neck of the bottle, and he gently tugs it out of my grip. "You probably could, savage girl," he agrees. "And maybe I’d let you if I knew I could get reciprocation, but since we both know that’s not going to happen, how about we leave my ass alone for the night, hmmm?"
"I don't want you here," I grumble.
"But you want to bitch to someone," he guesses.
Fuck him. I do. I wanna bitch and rage and throw shit and get mad. I told myself I was getting drunk to forget, but that isn't what's happening. I'm getting drunk and all I can think of is Dean. He's consuming all of my thoughts, good and bad.
I let loose a long groan and lean back. My head feels fuzzy, and there are questions on my tongue. I don't know which one is the right one, but before I have a chance to pick one, the first is already spilling out of my lips. "Why me?" I ask.
Brax sits back on his own stool and sighs. "Why you?" he repeats. "I don't think there's anyone but him who can answer that, but I can tell you what I think, if you want?" He offers up the suggestion like a question and dumb drunk bitch that I am, I nod my head in acquiescence. "I think it's you because it's been you since before you came here," he admits.
I frown. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Shit. Am I slurring my words? I can't tell.
"I assume your roommate told you about all of the program and scholarship students?" He eyes me.
Told me about them? I think back, sorting through the memories of the last couple of months, combing through all of our conversations until I come to the right one. "She said that they were recruited," I tell him. "Is that what you mean?"
He nods. "Yeah. All of the program and scholarship students are researched and recruited by Eastpoint and by our families," he admits.
Confusion pools inside of my mind. It could be because I'm not sober anymore or it could be that I'm honestly not understanding the reason for recruitment. "Why?" I blurt.
Braxton glances back as a few guys come out of the back. They glance over once but as soon as they see him, they go right back to setting up. And the bartender—Stacey—has disappeared as well. What strange control these Sick Boys have. It's not even Braxton's club and everyone pretends he's not here, sharing alcohol that isn't his or mine just because they know he's one of Dean's men. I shake my head and turn away from him.
"Ever heard the phrase 'with power comes great responsibility'?" he asks.
I snort. "What are you? Spider-man?"
"Stan Lee was dope," Brax replies with a laugh, "but he did have a point." He shifts and leans towards me. "We're rich, Ava."
"Yeah, I know, what about it?"
"Do you understand the kind of responsibility that comes with having as much money as we do?" he asks, but before I can respond, he continues talking. "My family alone employs tens of thousands of people across the world. From school administrators right here in Eastpoint to janitors in Tokyo." He holds out his hand, and I glance down, staring at it. It's huge. Twice as big as mine. "I hold the lives of tens of thousands of employees in my fucking palm," he says, making my eyes widen. "One wrong move. One word from me and they'll be out of a job and on the streets. The Smalls family owns hotels, hospitals, care facilities, nightclubs—like this one—grocery chains. We have our fingers in a lot of pies, Ava.
“But with this kind of money, with this kind of power, comes deception and hatred. People always want what they do not or cannot have. They're always looking for a leg up, and when you've grown up having it all, you don't understand—not really—which people are your friends because they care about you and which of them are there just trying to take advantage. Even the seemingly kindest of people are after something. They may not believe it themselves. They may fake it in front of others—pretending to be empathetic, but they're users. All of them."
I blink as he clenches his hand into a fist suddenly and drops it.
"You ask why we recruit people?" he repeats the question, staring over my head as he does. "We do it for many reasons. One, because the people we have around us will always change. We've become users ourselves. It's our addiction. Use people. Throw them away. Drive them as far as they can go and when they can no longer serve us, get rid of them."
"That's fucked up," I say.
"Yeah," he agrees. "It is, but it's also the way the world works. You don't get very far in life on kindness alone."
"Good thing I'm not kind," I reply.
Hazel eyes lower, and I'm caught up in the strange mixture of green, gray, and brown in their depths. "We recruit people who need us," he says. "Teenagers who have promise—skills, intelligence, or an aptitude for loyalty. The last is fairly hard to find, but I have a feeling you fall into that category."
"You think I'm loyal?" I ask.
He shrugs. "Until you're not."
"Ugh." I turn away from him, setting my elbows on the bar top as I cross my arms and lean into them. "I don't know what the fuck that means. I'm loyal until I'm not?"
"I'm going to throw a scenario at you," Brax says. "You don't have to answer, but if you think I'm wrong, feel free to say so."
I don't look at him.
"Say someone sees you at your worst," he begins. My shoulders stiffen. I don't want to think about me at my worst because, the fact is, he’s seen me there. They all have. On the dirty vinyl kitchen floor of my mother's trailer with a dirty drug dealer fucking into me as I tried not to scream and drool through the effect of whatever drugs he'd shot me up with. "Say they help you when you have nothing to give them. Say they keep your secrets, secrets that they could very well take advantage of. What does it mean when all they ask for in return is for you to let them take care of you?"
My fingers close around the shot glass, and in a flash of movement, I turn and throw it. The glass shatters upon impact when it slams into a dark painted wall several feet behind Braxton's head. When I lift my head and meet his gaze, my chest rising and falling rapidly with the hard shudders of my breath, he doesn't even flinch. The men across the room pause in their movements, but neither of them says a word, and after a few seconds of silence, they slowly resume their work.
"That's why he did this?" I demand. "Because he wants to take care of me?"
Braxton's eyes never waver from mine. "There's a lot more to it, but that's between him and you, Avalon. All I'm going to say now is that you need to let him tell you on his own. Be angry, that's your right. But don't run from him. Don't run from us."
Run? They're not giving me the chance. It's everything I can do right now to stand here right now, but it seems like no matter what I do, they always catch up to me.
"Then what else am I supposed to do?" I ask, deflating as I slowly sit back on the stool.
Brax reaches over the counter and retrieves another shot glass. "Well, for now," he says, his tone lighter than before as he pours another shot. "Why do
n't we get you drunk?"
I laugh, the sound sharp and a little maniacal even to my own ears. I shake my head, but take the shot he hands me. "You're fucking weird, you know that?" I ask.
He grins. "Takes one to know one."
That it does, I think, slamming the shot back. That it fucking does.
21
Dean
Vultures, every single one of them. They buzz around like heat-seeking missiles. Waiting for a target to land on. And once they do, they'll feast and feast until they've picked the body they've marked as theirs clean. I can feel their beady little eyes on me, tracking my movements through the club. Hunger pulses within. A desire to rip my intestines out and sell them to the highest bidder. People really are nothing more than base animals with pretty window dressing, after all.
I cut through a thicker than usual crowd, feeling feminine hands touch me as I pass. Small, delicate—but sticky—fingers gripping my arms, feeling my shoulders even going so far as to cling to my sides. It doesn't take much but a low growl and a dark glare for them to fall away. I am seriously not in the fucking mood.
They’ve been gone for fucking hours, and only thirty minutes ago did I get the text from Braxton telling me it was time to come get my girl. And low and behold, there she is. My reason for being here. Sitting pretty with her back to me at the bar. A shot glass on one side and a nearly empty bottle of top shelf tequila on the other. She's swaying back and forth in time to the music. Her lush ass squirms on the stool as her spine curves to the movements of her little buzzed dance. I want to wrap that long, black hair of hers in my fist and hold it as I pound my cock into the tight confines of her little mouth. The only thing that's stopping me is the fact that if anyone in this club aside from myself were to see her like that, I'd kill them, and dealing with multiple dead bodies would be a shitty end to the night.