Stone Cold Queen: Sick Boys Book 2

by Smoke , Lucy

  "Thanks, Luc," I say, moving towards the door. "If we need anything more, we know where to find you."

  "You're always welcome over here, Little Eastpoint Princess," he calls out as the guys begin to file out. Dean is the only one who lingers behind, watching my back as I stop at the doorway and turn back.

  "I'm not a princess, Luc," I say as I reach for Dean's hand and pull him after me. "I'm a stone cold queen."

  36

  Avalon

  "What the fuck do we do now?" Abel asks as we ride back to Eastpoint. This time, he and Braxton have taken the backseat, and Dean and I have taken the front. My tongue presses against the roof of my mouth as I think.

  There are a lot of strings, a lot of loose ends, and a lot of things that don't make any sense, but I can't see how they all fit together. Working through it is like trying to complete a thousand-piece puzzle without any image to go off of.

  "We wait," Dean says quietly. "See what Rylie can bring us from my father's emails. I want to know what information Luc's dad thinks he has."

  "I do too," I admit.

  Though I don't look at him, I sense his attention on my face as he speaks again. "You think it has something to do with Plexton and Roger?"

  "I don't know," I say. "But if I didn't know any better, I'd say the timing was a coincidence."

  "Know better?" Abel repeats curiously as he leans up between the front seats.

  "I don't believe in coincidences," I say, sitting back as I adjust the seat.

  Everyone's quiet the rest of the drive back. Abel leans back in the backseat, and within a few minutes, he's got his phone out. I watch in the rearview mirror as Braxton leans over and peeks at whatever he's doing.

  "That one," he says quietly, pointing to something on the screen, and he and Abel are off in their own little world.

  I turn to Dean. "What did you mean in there?" I start. "When you said you'd take care of it—the housekeeper?"

  "You were upset that she was going to lose her job," Dean replies, glancing my way.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "We'll make sure she finds another."

  "Because of me?" I ask.

  He shrugs, glancing my way once. “It’s not something you need to worry about.”

  I tap my fingernails against the inside of the car door and decide to let it slide. If he wants to help the woman out, it's none of my business. Yet even as I tell myself that, I can't deny the alleviation of my guilt. I'd seen far too many people like Evgenia in the gutter, trying to form a life—working themselves into an early grave. I didn't want it to be my fault that she lost her job.

  A warm palm cups my thigh, and I jump, darting a look to Dean, but he doesn't say anything, just squeezes his fingers against my leg as he directs the steering wheel with his free hand. I stare down at his fingers against my jeans. He's got big hands. They span the width of my thigh. Despite the fairly thick denim, I can still feel the heat of his palm through the fabric.

  It's odd. The emotions coursing through me right now. I tamp them down and turn to gaze out of the window—watching the passing scenery with indifference. Even as I focus on everything but Dean's hand on my thigh, I don't try to move it. I don't even touch it. I leave it right where it is.

  * * *

  Summer break begins the following week, and Eastpoint becomes a veritable ghost town. Whatever plans Rylie might have had to get away from EU and the Sick Boys are destroyed. Three days after we left her with the job and went in search of Luc Kincaid, she calls Dean's cell and orders the four of us back to campus.

  When I walk back into my old dorm room, I hardly recognize it. There are open, half-eaten ramen containers on every surface. Soda bottles have collected in the recycling bin in the corner, and when Rylie deigns to pull her gaze away from the screen of her laptop, she looks like she hasn't slept since we left.

  "Finally," she mutters, unfolding her small black-hoodie-covered frame from the desk chair. She motions to her desk chair, and Dean and I exchange a look before he nods for me to go ahead. "I got what you wanted," she says, rubbing one eye. "I think."

  She looks so different makeup-less, less like a pastel goth, and more human. I don't comment. "What are we looking at?" Dean asks as he leans over my shoulder.

  "Emails," she replies. "Loads of them, but not from who you think." She reaches past us and starts clicking around on her laptop, pulling up multiple pages. I scan the screen, looking for something familiar. I halt over a name I recognize.

  "That's my mom's name," I state, pointing to the page on the upper left hand corner of the screen.

  Dean squints at it and then brushes Rylie's hand out of the way as he maneuvers the mouse himself. I see the quick death glare she shoots him, but she must still have some of her fear of the Sick Boys because she doesn't say anything. Dean clicks on the page and brings it up to full screen as he reads it.

  "It's from the rehabilitation facility," he says. "The one I sent her to after..." He trails off, cutting a look to Rylie. He doesn't need to finish. I know what he means. It's the rehab center he sent her to after we caught up to her in Larryville after her overdose.

  "What does it say?" I ask. I'm scanning the document, but it's a lot of legalese and medical language that I'm not sure I understand.

  "It's a report," Dean says. "Someone discharged her, and she's now a ward of—it doesn't say—this is a scan, not an actual email. It's an attachment. Whoever signed over to be her guardian or whatever, I can't make out their name." He frowns. "I wasn't informed of this. Why the hell didn't I get a call? My name should've been down to call whenever she was released."

  "But she wasn't released," I state, reading closer as I start to make sense of the scan. "She was discharged without completing the program." I shake my head. "It still doesn't make sense. She's almost forty; how can she be a ward? How can she have some sort of legal guardian?"

  Rylie slumps into her bed beside us and groans. "It's common with people who are considered a danger to themselves," she answers. "Usually, for psychiatric reasons." A yawn splits her mouth wide, and she blinks at us. "I couldn't figure out some of the names on those documents, but this one was a forward, I think. By Maximillian Kincaid to Nicholas Carter."

  "Luc's dad?" Abel’s voice moves closer as he steps between Rylie and us to peek at the screen. "What the hell is he doing sending scans of Ava's mom's records?"

  Rylie scowls and scoots away from Abel before she gets up and switches beds. "Don't know," she says. "That's for you guys to find out. I did my job. Can I leave now?"

  "No," Dean says immediately. "We need you on retainer."

  She groans and slumps over onto the bare mattress, turning and smooshing her face into the cheap material. "Fine," she grumbles, "but at least give me time to recuperate. I haven't slept in over forty-two hours."

  "Did you forward any of this to our accounts?" Dean asks, standing up.

  Rylie lifts her head. "Of course not," she says. "I'm not stupid. There's a flash drive"—she waves her hand to the desk, and I spot it on the corner. I snatch it up and pocket it before Dean can reach for it. "It's got all of the emails and scans I found. I did some snooping into the rehab center too," she continues. "They're clean for all I can tell—you should know all their connections." She pauses and jerks her thumb at the only man in the room who's yet to speak—Brax. "But they've got a serious firewall—patient confidentiality and all that, I guess. It'd take me more than a few days to get into it if you need me to."

  "No, that'll be fine," Braxton replies. I arch my brows at him, but he doesn't glance my way as he looks down at Rylie. "We'll get those on our own if we need to."

  "Good," she yawns again. "That's good."

  "Come on." Dean's hand finds my arm, and he pulls me up from the desk. "Let's leave her to sleep and head back to the house to figure this out."

  "Figure what out?" I demand. "I still don't know what the fuck it is that we've found."

  Dean doesn't stop to answer me, thoug
h. Instead, he pushes me after Braxton and Abel as they head out into the hallway. Rylie's snores reach my ears right before the door closes. I flip around and glare at the three of them. "What did she mean by the facility's connections?" I ask.

  Dean sighs and gestures for me to keep moving. I don't. I cross my arms over my chest and tip my chin back in defiance. My nails sink into my forearms. If he wants my ass to move, he's gonna have to give up the intel. "Braxton's family owns the facility," he says finally. "I wanted her under guard even if you didn't want to see her."

  "Well, she's not under guard anymore now, is she?" I spit.

  "Ava." Abel rounds Braxton and comes towards me; his eyes move down my body and then back up.

  "No," I snap, backing up when he moves to reach for me. My nails sink further in as my heart pounds inside my chest. "I'm not good right now, Abel. Don't fucking touch me."

  His hands move back to his sides. "Okay," he says gently, "I'm not gonna do shit. I'm not gonna touch you—you don't need to worry about that, Ava."

  "Why are you fucking acting like that?" I rear back, my arms uncrossing as I stare at him. The calmness of his voice grates across my nerves.

  "Baby," Dean moves closer, bypassing Abel as he reaches for me. Before I can jerk away, he grabs my wrist and brings up my arm, and I stop. My eyes lock on the circles of red on each arm—imprints from my nails. I stare down at them, stunned. I'd sunk them so deep, a few had broken flesh, and little droplets of blood are smeared on my arm. I hadn't even felt it. "You're panicking," he says quietly, moving so that he's blocking the others. "It's okay." He cups the back of my head and pulls me into his chest.

  I freeze, a part of me wanting to push him away and another part of me wanting to burrow closer. I do neither. Instead, I remain rooted to the spot as his one hand continues to hold my neck and the other moves down my spine in a soothing motion. When was the last time anyone fucking soothed me? Tried to calm the riotous fury in me?

  I can only think of one person. Micki. But she's gone—wherever she is, she isn't fucking here, and I need to get a grip.

  "Say it," Dean says. "Say what you're thinking."

  I squeeze my eyes closed. I don't want to. It's vile. It's horrible. It makes me want to smash windows and set buildings on fire and jump from the highest cliffs or let a bitch pound my face until all I can taste and see is blood. My heart is racing as fast as my mind, and neither is for good reasons. This isn't the kind of adrenaline fix I like. I don't feel in control at all. I feel like I didn't jump, but I fell—the choice was taken from me. Just like it always has been.

  "Roger said it was a woman on the phone." The words scrape out of my throat, leaving me sounding raw—as if I've been screaming.

  "Yeah," Dean whispers. He moves and presses his lips to my forehead.

  The heated press of his mouth does it. It gives me the strength to pull away. My hands touch his chest and push back, and as I do, his arms fall away. He doesn't look like he likes it when I step back, but he doesn't stop me either.

  "She was here," I keep going. "Three hours from Eastpoint when she should've been half a day's drive down the coast. She was running. From what she'd done." That stupid cunt had finally gotten the last laugh. She'd always threatened, and I'd always gotten away. I'd fought my way free, and finally, when I thought I was safe—free of all of the constant nightmares of strange, foul-smelling men climbing into bed with me—that's when she'd gotten me.

  I wonder if she'd done it like this just to prove me wrong. Just to show me that there was no escape for women like us. We were filthy down to our bones.

  "Ava?" Braxton's voice brings me out of my reverie.

  I look up and meet his confused expression before looking to Abel and then Dean. When my eyes land on Dean, I stop and just take him in. His face is placid, devoid of emotion, but that, too, is an emotion. Though his mouth is nothing more than a straight line and his brows are even—neither raised nor lowered—his eyes tell a completely different story. One of rage, hatred, and vengeance.

  "I think I know who told Roger where to find me," I say. "It was my mother.”

  37

  Dean

  "Is she going to be okay?"

  Abel's question is the same one I've been asking myself since Rylie's intel gave Avalon the revelation that her mother was the one who'd set her up to be raped. "I don't know," I answer honestly.

  He blows out a breath and slumps his head back. "This is some fucked up shit," he says.

  Yeah, no fucking joke, I think. My eyes lift to the ceiling. Somewhere beyond it, Avalon is curled up in our room, in our bed, alone with her thoughts. I've never wanted to kill a woman before, but right now, I'd do anything in the fucking world to have Patricia Manning's body in front of me. I wouldn't make it short. She doesn't deserve a quick death. I'd want that dumb bitch to suffer.

  I jerk upright and get off the couch, striding across the living room towards the wet bar. I can feel both Braxton and Abel's eyes on my back as I move. I know what they're thinking. They know what I know—Avalon's mom is a bitch, and she'll be dealt with for her part in all of this, but what we discovered today is only a small part.

  Patricia Manning is a junkie—an addict—she didn't pull this shit off on her own. The question we need to answer, though, is who helped her?

  Behind me, Abel sighs again. "This is more complicated than we expected," he comments.

  I pour a hefty amount of whiskey into a glass before deciding to just fuck it—I drain the glass and leave it as I take the bottle back with me to the couch. Abel's fingers reach for it the second I'm seated, and he tips it back, swallowing a good mouthful before passing the bottle back.

  "I want Patricia Manning found," I state.

  "Already called the detective in Larryville," Braxton replies. "He's on it."

  I shake my head. "Not good enough."

  Braxton doesn't even crack a smile. "I know," he says. "I've got some PIs on it as well, and I've made contact with a few of our men on the inside of the business. They'll keep their lips shut and start the search. If Nicholas had anything to do with taking Patricia Manning out of the facility, we'll know."

  "Do you really think he took her?" Abel asks. "I didn't get to see everything on that girl's screen, but I know it was a scan. Avalon said he didn't seem upset about you two being together."

  I take another swig of whiskey, letting the fiery booze scorch a path down my throat before I respond. "That makes me even more suspicious," I tell him. "Why the fuck would he be okay with it?" I shake my head. "We've been told our entire lives that we've got to marry the right women to achieve success."

  "She's the right woman for you," Abel replies.

  Damn right she is, but that is not something my father would think. She doesn't come with a fucking pedigree. She doesn't come with more money. No connections. No wealth. Nothing but a feisty, wild, dangerously addictive mouth. Enough baggage to rival my own. And far more stubbornness than I know what to do with.

  "We need to find Patricia," I repeat. "We know she wasn't working alone. She wasn't there when Avalon went back to Plexton—she couldn't have known she'd be coming back unless someone here told her."

  Braxton lifts up from his seat. Finally, the facade of composure cracks, and he smiles. The bottle stills halfway to my lips. It’s a smile I’ve only seen a few times before—one of them being right before he set up the battery to electrocute the fuck out of Roger Murphy’s balls. I wince at the reminder. I have no sympathy for the dead man, but I know a crazed Braxton when I see him.

  “We’ll find them,” he says, his voice deepening on a rumble. “And when we do, we’re going to fucking slaughter them.”

  My hand continues, and the bottle makes it to my lips. I swallow and then release it to Abel’s custody as he takes it from my grip. A part of me hates that smile on Braxton’s face, and I know it’s because of how it got there. We’re all more than a little fucked up, and it has everything to do with who we are. But not that smile. />
  That smile and Braxton’s darker cravings, the ones I know he curbs with high priced escorts—because there ain’t no fucking way he’d do that shit with the girls from school or any fucking body he might even remotely care about—those have nothing to do with who he is and everything to do with Elric Smalls.

  I don’t want to use that darkness in him. I don’t want to need to. If the last few months have taught me anything, though, it’s that I am willing to go to extreme lengths for Avalon Manning. I just hope it doesn’t push the man I’ve loved like a brother since I was a kid over the edge and into a place where none of us can reach him again.

  38

  Avalon

  I slip the key hanging from the mount on the wall just inside the garage door off of its hook and glance over my shoulder to be sure the lights in the living room remain on. The sound of the guys talking filtered down the hall towards me as I stepped carefully the rest of the way into the garage and eased the door shut behind me, locking it for good measure as I hit the button to open the carport.

  The things we found out from Luc don't make complete sense. I believe he's telling the truth, but there's something else still bothering me. Something I can't quite figure out, and to do so, I need to talk to Rylie. Alone. Away from prying eyes and ears—specifically those that belong to the Sick Boys. I hit the unlock button, and somewhere down the row of immaculately preserved cars, the one that's connected to the fob in my hand beeps lightly, and headlights flash against the far wall. I hurry towards it, and just as I slip into the driver's seat, I hear voices—loud voices.