by Callie Rose
Throughout everything, the guys have been careful never to call this a “celebration”. In fact, there’s been almost no reference to my birthday at all, except for by the twins this morning.
I’m glad. I don’t want a celebration. I don’t think I could celebrate right now.
But this is better than that anyway.
It’s a reminder that I’m not alone.
8
“Dammit. She didn’t know Iris at all?”
“No.” Lincoln shakes his head, wadding up his napkin and tossing it on the table. “She matched the description Savannah gave you—goes to Waverly, has a flower tattoo, but she’s not the girl we’re after.”
“Shit.”
My soft curse is nearly drowned out by the sounds of the lunchroom around us. The kings and I have taken over a table near a wall on the far side of the room, isolating ourselves so we can talk without worry of being overheard.
The guys thought they got a lead on Wednesday, so Linc snuck over to Waverly yesterday to see if he could find the girl who introduced Iris and Hollowell.
But if it wasn’t her, that means we’re back to square one. Another week has gone by with nothing, and Mom’s trial date marches steadily closer. I visited her again yesterday, and even though she tried to hide it, I can tell she’s scared out of her mind. In some ways, the trial will only be the beginning, but for some reason, it feels like it will be the end. Like even just walking into that courtroom will seal her fate.
She told me Scott Parsons was enthusiastic about her suggestion of basing her defense on her character, but I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. The man is an idiot.
I run a hand through my hair, glancing around at the crowded cafeteria. Savannah is sitting on Trent’s lap several tables away, but her baleful glare keeps flicking in our direction for no reason that I can figure out besides the fact that she’s a sullen little bitch.
Ignoring her stare, I turn back to look at the guys. “Are we making a huge mistake? Should we just take what we know to Detective Dunagan and let him take it from there? He’s the one who’s got the training and resources to investigate, not us.”
“Yeah, but he’s also the one who arrested your mom based on planted evidence,” Chase mutters, his gaze darkening. “And even if we trust him, we don’t know what cops Hollowell has in his pocket.”
“Going to him without solid evidence is risky.” River chews his lip as he thinks, speaking softly. “He might not even investigate if it’s just your word, especially if he has any idea Hollowell plans to run for office. It’d be a risky move politically to start poking around in his life without a very good reason.”
Fuck. I know he’s probably right, but I hate it.
We can’t just wait this out though. We need to do something, find some piece of evidence strong enough to convince Dunagan that this is worth looking into.
We need to find that fucking Waverly girl.
But the weekend turns up nothing.
On Monday, I shuffle through classes like a zombie, relying heavily on the guys to make sure I don’t fall too behind. No matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing, part of me is with my mom in her little cell in the Fox Hill Correctional Center.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Worrying.
I ditch class on Tuesday, and Dax and Chase drop me off at the courthouse so I can watch Mom’s pre-trial hearing. I want the guys with me, but I know if they all came in, she’d pick up on the thing going on between us in a heartbeat, and I don’t want her wondering or worrying about that right now. I want to tell her in my own way, when I’m ready.
The Fox Hill Courthouse is classic looking and well-maintained. It’s a beautiful building, actually, but my skin still crawls as I step through the entry doors. I can feel my heart rate picking up, and I clench my hands into fists and then release them, trying to banish some of the nervous tension flowing through my body.
I wander the halls on shaky legs for a few moments before I find the courtroom mom will be in. When I pull the door open and step inside, the room is mostly empty. I take a seat behind the defendant’s table and wait, shrugging off my coat and twisting my hands together nervously. My phone buzzes several times in quick succession. Text messages from each of the guys wait on the screen, and I try to let them comfort me.
Finally, Mom is led in through a door at the side of the room, and I practically leap to my feet.
She looks different—again. When she first went to prison, the sight of her in orange was so jarring, so unsettling, she almost didn’t look like my mother. For better or worse, I’ve gotten somewhat used to it by now, but seeing her in her orange jumpsuit in this austere room, with a guard holding her lightly by the elbow, makes my stomach drop.
She looks like a convict.
And it occurs to me with a slow burn of acid up my throat that this is how a jury will see her when the time comes. Not wearing her comfy old jeans and a t-shirt like she used to at home. Not even wearing the stupid maid uniform she wore as the Black family’s Executive Housekeeper.
But wearing prison orange as if she belongs in it.
I shove that thought away as she catches sight of me, and when a smile breaks out across her face, she looks like my mom again, no matter what the fuck she’s wearing.
She settles into the seat in front of me, and I lean over the divider a little to speak to her.
“Hey. You look good.”
Mom shoots me a deadpan look in response that makes my heart ache. “You’re a bad liar, Low. But you’re the sweetest girl.”
Before I can say anything else, Scott Parsons bustles up and sits in the seat next to her. He’s in his early forties, round at the middle and thin everywhere else. He’s got an earnest, wide-eyed face that makes him constantly look a bit surprised by everything around him—which I can’t imagine is a quality that makes for a good lawyer.
“Hi, Penelope. Harlow.” He nods in my direction as he pulls things out of his leather briefcase, dropping several papers on the ground.
Mom looks almost embarrassed, like she doesn’t want the world to know this mess of a human being is her lawyer. But I keep a smile plastered on my face. I don’t want to throw him off his game, and I don’t want to put my mom in her head. I’m here to offer as much emotional support as I can, and that means keeping my own emotions under control.
Mom and Scott confer in low voices for a few minutes as the prosecuting attorney walks in and gets settled, and then the bailiff tells everyone to rise as the judge comes in. Judge Conway is a severe looking woman with a white and gray bob and reading glasses hanging around her neck. She settles herself behind the judge’s desk like a queen settling onto her throne, and nerves prickle my skin.
Unlike Scott Parsons, this woman does look put together. She looks like once she’s made up her mind about something, she won’t change it, and she doesn’t look like the type to tolerate incompetence.
Fucking great.
I sit on my hands to stop them from fidgeting nervously as the pre-trial hearing begins. The proceedings go on for several hours, and I do my best to follow along, but it’s like watching a sport I’ve never seen before. I don’t know who’s up and who’s down, if Mom is doing okay or if things are going terribly.
By the time the hearing is adjourned, I’m a nervous wreck.
I give Mom a wave and a forced smile as she’s escorted out by a guard, and then I get up to leave, following the flow of people heading out of the room. I tug my cellphone out of my pocket and shoot a text to Linc.
ME: I’m done. The hearing just finished.
His response is almost instantaneous.
LINCOLN: Leaving now. Be there soon.
School is still in session, but the guys were adamant about me letting them know the second I was finished. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just stood up and walked out of class mid-lecture.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and step into the ladies’ room. As I wash my
hands, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, then I splash a little water on my wan looking face and dry it with a paper towel. It doesn’t make me look much better, but I feel a little more human as I step back out into the hallway.
I head toward the entry, and I’m rounding a corner when I almost collide with someone walking the other direction. I let out a surprised yelp, and hands reach out to steady me.
“Sorry!” I blurt. “I—”
Hazel eyes stop my voice.
Judge Hollowell gazes down at me, dressed in black robes just like Judge Conway was.
“Oh, Harlow.” He smiles kindly.
“Hi,” I choke out.
“What brings you here?”
“My mom.” Fuck. My face feels numb. I can’t remember how to breathe. “Her pre-trail hearing was today.”
His hands are still on my upper arms, and the grip of his long fingers through my sweater burns and freezes at the same time.
“How did everything go?” he asks, lowering his voice slightly as his brows bunch in concern.
I’m not sure if he’s really supposed to be asking me about that, and under other circumstances, I might feel grateful to him for taking that risk to check in with me.
But right now, all I feel is pissed off.
I just watched my mom shuffle out of a courtroom in handcuffs, and Judge Hollowell wants to know how it went. He probably wants to know if he needs to plant more evidence, or if we’re already losing so badly that he doesn’t need to bother.
“It… was okay.”
My lips feel stiff as they form the words, like my body is freezing solid. I take two steps back. I can’t help it. The feel of his hands on me is making my stomach want to turn itself inside out.
“Good. Good.” He’s still smiling, but watches me carefully as I slide out of his grip. He cocks his head to the side, lowering his voice a little more as he asks, “And what we talked about—has that helped?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, probably more honestly than I should. But the misery tingeing my voice actually seems to make Hollowell relax.
He gives me another reassuring smile, reaching out once more to squeeze my upper arm. “It’ll all work out, Harlow. If you need to talk, you can give me a call, all right?”
“Right. Thanks.”
I slip my poker face back on, hiding my anger and pain behind it, and Hollowell steps around me to continue on his way. But as soon as he’s gone, my facade crumbles again.
Dammit, dammit, dammit. That fucker.
I can barely keep it together. I’ve never felt this combination of helplessness, anger, and fear before. It makes me think of the way wild animals look when they’re trapped, when they’re boxed in with no way out.
Like they’ll make a way out, even if it kills them.
“Low? Harlow!”
I blink and look up in time to see Lincoln and River striding toward me.
It’s the look in Linc’s eyes that jars me back to reality. He looks worried, and I realize I’m standing in the middle of the hallway, clutching my winter coat in both hands and shaking from head to toe.
He and River reach me in a few long strides, and instead of questioning me or saying anything at all, they pull me through a nearby door marked STAIRS.
The door closes behind us with a heavy thud, and Lincoln’s arms come around me immediately from behind, caging me against his body—keeping me from running or fighting or collapsing, I’m not sure which.
River is in front of me, cradling my face in his hands as his gaze finds mine. “What happened?”
“I saw—Hollowell.”
I’m breathing heavily, but it’s like the atmosphere has thinned. I can’t get enough oxygen.
“Fuck.” He glances from me to Linc, whose chin rests by my temple, my back to his front. When he focuses on me again, his fingers tighten just slightly on my cheeks. “What did he say? Anything?”
“He asked me how—the trial was going,” I whisper, my voice raspy. “He wanted to know if the advice he gave me—helped.” My head shakes back and forth, pushing against River’s hands. “I can’t do this. I don’t know how to do this. He’s gonna find out what I know and go after Mom, go after me. Fuck! I’m a good goddamn poker player, why can’t I do this? Why can’t I bluff?”
River doesn’t stop me from shaking my head, but he doesn’t release his grasp either, moving with me as his gaze tracks mine. Lincoln’s body behind me is steady and solid, his arms a tight band around my waist.
“Because this isn’t a poker game, Low,” the boy in front of me says softly. “It’s your life. Your mom’s life. It’s fucking terrifying, and there’s no reason you should be able to handle this. But you’re doing good. You’re doing great. Just breathe.”
I suck in a gasping lungful of air, losing myself in River’s gray irises as I fight for control.
“That’s it. Breathe, baby. Breathe.”
Linc’s voice rumbles against my back. I can feel him breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest like a demonstration of how to do it.
But I’m still unraveling.
I’m still that trapped animal with no way out. I’m a rat on a sinking ship, scrambling for higher ground over and over as the water rushes up around me.
I’m drowning.
Then River drops his head and presses his lips to mine.
I jerk slightly in surprise, but that little shock lets air flow into my nostrils, flooding my body with desperately needed oxygen. It’s like he flipped a switch, opened a latch, and allowed it in.
His mouth moves against mine, gentle and patient as always, as my breath finally comes back to me, slipping in and out through the gaps between our lips. My body relaxes in Lincoln’s hold, and I sag against him, the fight-or-flight instinct fading.
River brushes my hair back from my face and moves to pull away from me, but I chase his lips, not ready to let go yet.
I need this.
I need this more than the oxygen he just gave me.
He takes a step closer, encasing me fully between his body and Linc’s, stroking my hair as he kisses me. Lincoln’s hands splay over my ribs, and I feel his head pressed against mine, his cheek at my temple, so close to the kiss I’m sharing with his friend.
When my lips finally part from River’s, they’re tingling slightly, and I only pull back enough to let him see my face before I whisper four words.
“Take me home. Please.”
9
River and Linc both pause for a second, still holding me between them.
It occurs to me that maybe I should’ve been more clear. I’m technically homeless, and I’ve bounced from place to place so much in the past several weeks that I think I’m officially a vagabond.
But the truth is, I don’t care where they take me.
As long as they come with me.
As long as they don’t stop touching me.
River’s blue-gray gaze finds mine again as Linc nods behind me.
“Come on.”
With those words, Lincoln releases his hold on me but catches my hand, as if he knows how much I need the reassurance of his touch. River pulls open the stairwell door and follows us out as we step back into the hallway.
My gaze scans the corridor as we walk—a prey animal’s instinct to watch for predators—but I don’t see Judge Hollowell again as we make our way toward the large doors at the front of the building.
Linc’s car is outside, and I sit in the front passenger seat with River behind me. The quiet, brown-haired boy leans forward, so even though we’re not touching, I can feel him through the seat that separates us. Lincoln’s hand rests on my knee, and the car is silent as we drive.
No music plays. No words are spoken. I watch the snowy landscape pass by outside until I recognize our surroundings.
Lincoln’s neighborhood.
When we pull up the drive and into the motor court, a quiet, unspoken promise seems to fill the space of the car. Linc pulls into the motor court and tu
rns off the engine before cutting his gaze to me. His amber eyes gleam like gems as he watches me for a second, a dozen different expressions flitting across his face. Then he turns and slides out of the car.
It’s almost three o’clock, and the house is quiet as we enter. Gwen is probably in the kitchen, and Audrey Black might be here somewhere, but Linc’s dad is likely at work.
Not that I’m thinking much about any of them.
Lincoln’s hand finds my right one again, and River’s fingers interlace with those on my left. We wordlessly head up the stairs, walking single file. After my near panic attack at the courthouse, I feel strangely calm, strangely certain. And I know it’s because of the two hands holding mine, the two boys book-ending me like perfect complements to each other.
We move quietly down the hall toward Lincoln’s bedroom, our steps unhurried. Only when we get inside do the boys release my hands, and the promise that built up between all of us the whole way back from the courthouse seems to swell in the air.
We come together like water flowing downhill—like there’s no other direction we could go.
It’s not a violent clash.
It’s a union.
Lincoln kisses me, slow and steady and so fucking deep, as River runs his hands over me, gathering the hem of my shirt and lifting gently. I raise my hands up, breaking away from Linc just long enough to let the fabric slide over my head, and then we’re kissing again as more clothes come off.
I feel weightless and grounded at the same time, as if for once, everything is easy and makes sense.
When River tugs my jeans down my legs, I step out of them, then shiver at the feel of his lips trailing up the back of my thigh. When he reaches the curve of my ass, he bites down gently, sending jolts of electric energy flicking through me.
I press harder against Lincoln when that happens, unable to contain my response. He shifts backward momentarily to tug his shirt off, and I help him before my greedy hands fall on his sculpted chest, tracing the fine contours of his muscles all the way down to his stomach, which flexes under my touch.