by Smoke , Lucy
"I simply wanted to meet you," he says. "To see what it is about you that my son is so fixated on."
"He's not—" I try to argue, but Mr. Carter merely laughs and shakes his head, cutting me off.
"Oh, he is," he says. "Dean is quite infatuated with you. Obsessed, really."
"Are you going to warn me away from him?" As the rapid pulse of my heart finally begins to slow, my curiosity rises. How funny is it for Nicholas Carter—Dean’s father—to come to me now after all these months. If it’s true, if he is trying to warn me away—it’s too late. I’ve tried and failed to stay away from Dean Carter.
"No." Mr. Carter tilts his head to the side as he traces me with those eyes of his, and the single word surprises me. I almost feel as though he's looking for something, a sign, maybe? Of what, though, I don't know. "No, I'm not here to warn you away. Dean is man enough to know what he wants, and truthfully, I don't disapprove of the two of you."
It's my turn to tilt my head and frown. "You don't?"
He chuckles, the sound deep and reverberating. I release a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding when he pulls away from me. "No, I don't," he repeats. "I never desired to hold my son to the same standards that my old friends and I were held to."
I scowl. "Are you saying I'm below standard?"
Mr. Carter presses his lips together and levels a look at me. Were I anyone else, I might shrink away, but I'm not anyone else. I'm me, and I do not fear anything—certainly not the father of my boyfriend, no matter the kind of power he holds. So, I do the only thing I know well enough to do—I jerk my chin up and meet his gaze.
"You are not and nor have you ever been below standard, Avalon Manning," he states clearly, shocking me with his words. "It is unfortunate that that is the first thing you think of when you speak to someone like me. For that, I am truly sorry. Had things gone differently..." He trails off as if he's not quite sure how to finish the thought. Then after a moment, he sighs again and shakes his head. "No matter," he says. "I merely wanted to introduce myself. I see the boys have taken our requests seriously. I do hope that you continue to stay with them, Avalon. Those boys..." His lips press together again and twist into a grimace. "While they've lived with wealth their whole lives, none of them has ever truly had the feminine touch in their lives most men don't realize they need." When Mr. Carter's eyes meet mine once more, his grimace morphs into a sad smile. "Those boys need someone like you, I believe. Just as much as you need them."
For the first time in my life, I'm rendered speechless. Completely unable to think of a single thing to say. Mr. Carter reaches out, and I'm so stunned, that I don't even pull away as he lightly cups my cheek. He then releases me and turns to walk away.
My eyes follow him all the way down the hallway of creepy old white men and just as he steps into the elevator, I reach into my pocket and rip out my phone. I start dialing as Mr. Carter reaches forward and presses a button. Our gazes meet and hold as I listen to the phone line ring, and the second the elevator doors close, cutting him off from me completely, Dean answers.
"Hey, are you done already?" he asks.
My lips part, but no words emerge.
"Avalon?"
Sweat trickles down my spine, and I finally manage to push the words out. "We need to talk," I hear myself say. "About your father."
30
Dean
That crazy motherfucker. I storm past Avalon for the second time as she sits on the couch contemplating. What the hell could he be thinking? Approaching her when she's alone? He knows that she's here with us, with me.
Years and years of his words—however unsolicited—march their way into my head. I recall everything. Every look, every insult, every dig, every piece of advice. Mostly, what I want to know is what the fuck my father, Nicholas Carter, wants with Avalon.
"Dean." Avalon's voice snaps me out of my internal thoughts. I stop and turn back towards where she’s sitting. Across the room, Braxton stands with his arms crossed and his brows lowered. He's thinking, too, trying to figure out what the old men could be gambling on. Is it a game to them? I wonder. Are they just fucking with us? How is my father related to the incident in Plexton?
"You need to calm down and think," Abel says from his own seat. He sighs and leans back in the chair across from the couch and then scrubs a hand down his face. "Ava, we can't just go up to his office and ask him what he was doing there—he'll have an excuse. You know he has another office in that building."
"He wasn't in it," she points out. "He was specifically waiting for me in the hallway. He said he knew my mother." Her furious gaze collides with mine. "How the hell would he know her?"
I don't know. I don't know anything, and that pisses me off even more. I hate not knowing. I hate the fact that my father is very good at hiding his secrets, holding back, yet he seems to know every single one of ours.
No more. I round the coffee table and sit down directly across from her, where our eyes are level with one another. "What exactly did he say to you?" I demand.
She blows out a breath, frustration welling in her expression. I fucking get it, but it's important that I know.
"He said that he was glad to finally meet me," she says slowly, watching me—as if she's gauging my reaction. I keep my face cold as I listen to her words. I don't want her stopping or altering her story even a hint if she thinks it'll keep me from exploding. No matter what she says now, all of the sneaking around has gone on long enough. Answers will be found. We will find them.
"He said he was glad to see that I didn't look anything like my mother." Her teeth clench, and she closes her eyes—cutting me off from her own fury as she works to keep it under control. After this, I don't think I want her to. I want to see her unleash all of that fury. I want to see her take her vengeance out on the people responsible for all of this. "How the hell does he know what my mother looks like?" she snaps.
Abel is the one to answer. "It's not surprising," he says. "It's probably in your files. They had records of all the important people in your life before you came here."
"You said you thought he was behind the set up in Plexton," Avalon says, her eyes back on mine. "Why?" she asks. "Why would he do that? What could be his reason?" A little wrinkle appears between her brows when she frowns. "It doesn't make any sense. He has no reason to want to hurt me. I've never done anything to him."
"Maybe it's Dean," Abel suggests, making me glare his way. I know what he means, though, and if that is the reason, then I have only more reason to feel the bone deep guilt that I do. The rage. The desire to maim and slaughter.
"What does that mean?" Avalon looks between us.
I stand up and move away, my jaw working as I think through my anger. I can feel the muscle in my jaw pulsing. Braxton answers her question.
"The Eastpoint heirs aren't just a collection of very wealthy men," he says. The sound of his footsteps creep closer as he rounds the couch. A hand falls on my shoulder, making me tense, but when I neither move away nor say anything, he squeezes and then let’s go. "Our fathers—and the three of us—come from a long line of money and alliances."
"So, you're blue bloods?" she replies. "So what?"
"It's more complicated than just being rich, Ava." Abel sighs. I can feel their eyes on me—Braxton's and Abel's. They want me to explain it. Hell, it's my responsibility to explain it. She's mine. And this is my problem. She deserves to know.
With slow, careful movements, I pivot back to face her. She glares up at me with such rebellion, and it makes me smile. Shit, I'm so fucking gone for this girl, I think. Fucked up and gone. There's no getting me back.
"In the beginning of our family alliances," I start, "arranged marriages and business deals kept rich old men from monopolizing and cutting out their rivals and friends. It wasn't uncommon to seal a business deal by arranging a marriage between children." Her lips part, and I can tell she wants to say something. Braxton steps forward and turns, sinking into the spot next to her. He shakes his head, a
nd she huffs out a breath, leaning back to let me continue.
"Business deals. Hostile takeovers. The succession of ownership and inheritance. All of this was done and accomplished by connecting very powerful families—American royalty, so to speak. Hell," I say with a gesture to the grandness of the living room—not so much an actual living room, the kind I'd seen on television as a kid, but a giant open space filled with priceless paintings on the walls. A chandelier overhead, large, luxurious sectionals. "That's exactly what we are. American royalty. American industrialism and business runs the country, Avalon. Not the fucking government. They're too poor. With money comes power, and we own it all."
"It's tradition," Abel says with no small hint of disgust. He shoves up from his chair and storms over to the wet bar behind the couch. The clanking of glass is a sharp contrast with the otherwise silent room as he pours himself a hefty drink and then returns with a glass more than half full of dark liquor.
"Everything we have is dependent on this tradition," I admit quietly. I hate to say it. It burns in my gut. Before—I was more than happy to play this game of theirs because soon enough, it would all be ours, and then we could burn their fucked-up traditions to the ground.
"Arranged marriages?" Avalon's face pinches. "You're fucking joking."
"We're not," Abel snaps before he tips his drink back and downs half the contents of his glass. "Believe me, we're fucking not." He glares into the remainder of the liquid as if it's responsible for all of the fucked-up shit we've had to do.
But her ... if anyone could understand the shit we've done. The lying. The killing. Everything else. She would. Like her, we've just been surviving. Waiting for the day when we could finally be free.
"He's serious," Braxton tells her. "Marriages form alliances. It wasn't really until the modern era that those really were breakable." He grins down at her. "But our families don't believe in divorce." He sobers. "Not only is it bad for business, but to know that you can break a contract like that makes some powerful people very nervous—and making those people nervous is never a good thing. Branch families have more leverage—of course, divorces are allowed—but never main families. Never."
"That's..." she shakes her head before looking up at me, "seriously fucked up."
Abel snorts into his glass. Braxton chuckles. And though I try to stop myself, I can't keep my lips from twitching. She's not wrong. It's a simple way to describe our entire lives. So easy summarized into two little words. Who are we? Who are the Sick Boys? That's simple. We're fucked up.
"And I think you're wrong," she finishes.
"We're not wrong," Abel jerks his glass down as he leans forward in his seat. "We—"
"Not about the arranged marriages or whatever the hell else your families make you do," she interrupts, shooting him a dark look. "I mean about Dean's dad and his reason for possibly being the one behind my setup. He knows I'm here. He wasn't angry about it at all. In fact, he encouraged it. Seemed pleased by it, even. Whatever is going on—if he's pissed off about Dean dragging me into all of this"—she stops and gestures around—"he certainly didn't fucking show it."
A deep frown settles on my face. If that's true—if my father isn't upset about me bringing her in … then what the fuck else could it be?
I lift my head and meet first Braxton's gaze and then Abel's and finally hers. "We need to find out why they wanted us watching you," I say. "We need to find out why the fuck they wanted you here at Eastpoint in the first place."
"Who made the decision to bring me here?" she asks. "Would they all have to sign off on it?"
"No," Braxton answers. "No, only one would need to sign off on recruiting you."
"It was my father," I say. Her transfer docs had been in the file he'd given us. "Plus, Bairns is close with him. They've been meeting."
"How do you know he's not just fucking her?" Abel asks. "He's taken a few of the staff at Eastpoint before."
That was true, but I had a feeling I was onto something here. "He could be," I admit, "but the last time I went to speak with him, she was there, and while she probably wants him"—any fucking woman would; they saw dollar signs when one of us passed. The same went for him and the other fathers—"I got the distinct feeling they'd been discussing Avalon."
I fix her with a look. She sits up straighter and then puts her hands down against the couch cushions and pushes up until she's standing to her full height. Avalon's legs carry her around the coffee table and straight towards me. My eyes eat up each step she takes. She's like a wild predator stalking her prey. Untamable. Undeniable. Unstoppable. And so fucking devious, it makes my blood pound and my stomach clench.
"Delilah Bairns brought you here," I say just as she stops in front of me, "and she seems very fucking close to the old man right now. They're planning something."
Her hand lifts and settles on my chest. Even through my t-shirt, I can feel the heat of her skin. "Then let's find out what it is," she says.
"We have a contact," Abel offers. "She should be able to get us some information."
I shoot him a look. I know exactly who he's talking about. "Who's your contact?" she asks, turning his way. "How far away is she?"
I groan just as Abel grins back at her. "Oh, she's close, Ava," he says. "Real fucking close."
In that moment, I hate Abel. Hate him for suggesting it and hating him for being right. She was the only person we could use right now. She was untraceable and fast and very fucking good at her job. She was also probably about to send Avalon over the fucking rails.
Fuck. Me.
31
Avalon
"What the actual fuck?" The words slip out of my mouth the second Rylie opens the door to what had, at one time, been my dorm room. My body seems to have a mind of its own—a very focused mind intent on getting a few answers without towering, overprotective cavemen breathing down the back of my neck—because in the next second, I'm shoving my way through the three tall, well-muscled bodies that stand between me and my ex-roommate and straight into the room. Rylie's eyes widen as she realizes what's coming.
"Ava—" I slam the door shut halfway through Dean trying to call my name. No. Not this time.
"You're their fucking contact?" I hiss.
She stands back, her faded purple hair yanked up into a haphazard bun and her face unusually makeup free. Like this, she looks five years younger than she actually is. Youthful. Innocent. And now I know all it hides is a conniving bitch. Anyone else would be fucking shaking in their boots right now, but Rylie? No.
She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me. "Did you come here for a reason or just to yell at me?" she demands. "Because I was in the middle of a job."
"A job," I repeat. "A job?" I turn back to the door, hearing the hissed whispers of the men outside. The knob jiggles.
"Ava, let us in! She can help!" Abel calls.
"Maybe I need to go get Lowery?" Braxton suggests.
Let him, I think. By the time Lowery gets up here with her keys, I'll have beaten Rylie to a pulp and gotten out the worst of my anger. Yeah, that sounds like a great idea.
I turn back, grabbing her by the dark front of her t-shirt, and slam her into the closet door. "Tell me," I begin, "that you weren't fucking reporting to them. That you weren't watching my every fucking move the second I got here."
Her small hands go to my wrist, but there's no pulling me off. Corina had hurt—but I hadn't really trusted her from the start. She was a chick I needed to keep at arm's length. But Rylie ... oh, Rylie had seemed so fucking genuine. She'd warned me away from the Sick Boys. She had avoided me for weeks as much as she could. Was it because she already knew everything?
When she doesn't respond, I start shaking. Trembling with fury and rage and something else I really don't want to fucking name. The word comes to me anyway; betrayal. "What did you tell them?" I demand.
"Let. Me. Go," she says through gritted teeth.
I pull her away from the closet door and slam her back into it. I
am so not fucking playing right now. "Tell me!"
"You want to know if they paid me to watch you? Yes!" she yells back, still struggling in my grip. "I've told you before—normal people don't fucking say no to them. You got away with it. Do you really think I could? I warned you not to get close to them. I warned you not to trust them."
"You didn't say shit about you!" And that's why I’m angry. Corina has an agenda—I'd seen that from the start. Whatever it is—a leg up on the social ladder of Eastpoint University, access to the right parties and guys, to get close to the Sick Boys—I've known about it. Rylie though—Rylie goddamn Moore—she'd gotten close without ever really meaning to. Or so I thought…
"I told you we weren't friends," she says. "I didn't do this to hurt you." I jerk my head up at her words and glare at her. "It's just self-preservation. If it helps, now you know I'm not dealing drugs." No, she was dealing something far more valuable—information.
My eyes narrow on her face. "What did Jake want?"
She rolls her eyes. "Info on his dad," she answers. "It had nothing to do with you—not everything is about the great and powerful Avalon Manning."
Great and powerful Avalon Manning, huh? What a crock of bullshit. There's nothing great or powerful about me. The only thing that I have that others don't is the will to tear down anyone and everyone who puts me in a bad position and tries to take advantage of me.
I pull back, releasing her, but I don’t step away. Instead, I keep right on her—a dark thought in my head. I don't want to think it, but I'm tired of finding shit out, of being played for a fucking fool. The doorknob to the room jiggles again, and the guys' voices grow louder.