by Callie Rose
And what I see makes my heart skip a beat.
We gaze at each other for a long moment, and I swear I can feel the connection between us like a physical thing. Like I could reach out and touch it, trace the line of it from me to him.
Then Lincoln turns to him, drawing his attention as he asks for directions to the dry cleaner. River blinks and nods, holding up the receipt and punching the address into his phone.
Right. We need to focus on what’s ahead.
I reach for Dax and Chase, holding onto them as I draw upon every last bit of courage I’ve been holding in reserve.
I’m gonna need it.
Because I love these boys. And we’re about to step into the lion’s den.
21
The GPS calls out directions with the same neutral tone as always, the woman’s voice even and pleasant, as if she has no idea she’s leading us to our possible doom.
It takes us almost twenty-five minutes to get there, and as Linc drives, I pull out my phone and scroll through my text messages until I find Hunter’s name. I feel bad. The last text I sent her was five days ago, way longer than we usually go without talking in some capacity.
I feel like shit. When I left Bayard, we both worried that our friendship wouldn’t survive the test of distance, that our new lives and new friends would make us gradually grow apart. And we both swore we’d do whatever we could not to let that happen.
At first, we kept up that promise. We might not have seen each other every day, but I still felt connected to her, in tune with what was going on in her life. Close.
But ever since Iris’s death—ever since Mom’s arrest—I’ve been spiraling further and further away from my best friend back home. The same lies and secrets that kept a wall up between me and Mom put one up between me and Hunter too, although at least Hunter knows a bit about the four guys I’m with.
I don’t know quite why it feels so important right now, but I want to talk to her. I want to make sure she knows I love her, and that I miss her so much it hurts.
ME: Hey, dummy. I know you’re probably in class right now, but I just wanted to say sorry I’ve been so MIA. There’s been some… crazy shit going on, and it’s sort of taken over my life.
We’re three hours ahead of Arizona, and it’s almost two p.m. here, so I’m sure she is in class. But a text from her pops up less than a minute later anyway.
HUNTER: Girl, it’s okay. I’m sure your mom’s trial is all you can think about. Just so long as you know I’m thinking about you. Can I do anything? You need anything?
A lump forms in my throat, and Dax squeezes my knee. I don’t think he’s reading her text, but we’re sitting so close that he can probably feel my reaction to it.
ME: No, I’m okay. It’s not just Mom’s trial though. I’ll explain everything when I can. But I just wanted to tell you I love you.
HUNTER: What? What’s going on? Who do I need to hurt?
I bite back a half-smile at my protective, bloodthirsty friend. I wish I could tell her everything, but this response is exactly why I can’t. If I’d told her from the start about the man in the black mask, or about how we discovered it was Hollowell, she probably would’ve hopped a plane out here and tried to take him on herself.
It’s hard to sit by and do nothing when people you love are in danger. I’ve learned that the hard way.
ME: No one. Thanks though. But can you do me a favor? If you don’t hear from me in a few hours, can you call the Fox Hill Police Department and have them swing by this address? But *only* if you don’t hear from me.
I lean forward a little to get River’s attention, and he looks up from the phone where the route is mapped out.
“What’s the address?” I ask.
He recites it back to me, and I type it into the phone, reiterating once again that Hunter should only call the police if she doesn’t hear back from me in a while. Dirty cops in this town or not, it feels monumentally stupid to walk into a potentially dangerous situation without at least a little backup.
HUNTER: What the hell is going on, Low? You’re scaring the fuck out of me.
ME: I’m sorry. I don’t want to. I love you, dummy.
There’s a long pause, and I can tell she’s probably debating whether to threaten or cajole me to try to get more answers. But she knows me well enough to know it won’t work.
HUNTER: I love you too. Even though I hate you a little bit right now.
A small laugh huffs out of me, and I shake my head as I type one last message.
ME: No you don’t. You just love me.
HUNTER: Damn you.
I want to keep texting her, to keep clinging to this last shred of normalcy in my life, a connection to a time when my life was about poker and homework and hanging out with friends on the weekends. Normal fucking teenager stuff.
But as Lincoln rounds a corner, River murmurs, “We’re close,” and my head snaps up.
Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I lean forward to peer out the window. I don’t recognize this part of town at all, but that’s not surprising. I don’t know Fox Hill all that well yet, especially the out-of-the-way neighborhoods.
And this is definitely out-of-the-way.
Less than a minute later, Lincoln rolls to a stop in front of our destination. It’s a dry cleaning business, surrounded on either side by a worn-down convenience store and a fast-food restaurant. There are blinds on the windows, and they’re down, but the slats are open, allowing me to see inside.
A man sits on a stool behind the counter, looking bored as hell, and from what I can see from here, everything around him looks like it belongs to a legit dry cleaning business. Racks of clothes in garment bags hang behind him, and there’s a small monitor and keyboard set up on the counter next to a credit card machine.
If we didn’t have a receipt with numbers so big it made my heart stop, I’d almost believe we’d made a mistake and that this storefront really is nothing more than a place to take dirty clothes.
But the devil lurks in the blandest things.
Judge Hollowell taught me that.
“Okay.” Linc’s voice is taut as a wire. “Let’s go.”
The guys all open their doors and step out, and I follow after Chase, who takes my hand to help me and doesn’t let go.
The guy inside the dry cleaner looks up as we approach, but he doesn’t look alarmed at our presence, cementing my belief that this place actually does function as a legit business in addition to whatever other shit gets done under the table.
“Picking up?” he asks in a bored voice, sliding off the stool as we approach the counter. He’s in his thirties, with hair shaved close on the sides and a little longer on top, and deep pockmarks on his cheeks.
“No, actually. We just wanted to ask a question about this receipt.” Lincoln takes the piece of paper from River, who’s standing close behind him, Dax right by his side. Linc slaps the document down on the counter lightly, and the sound of his palm hitting the worn wood almost makes me jump.
Fuck. Get it together, Low.
“Yeah? What about it?”
The guy doesn’t seem all that interested—at least, not until he leans over and looks at the receipt. Then his posture changes immediately, a subtle shift that makes my stomach clench with nerves. When he looks back up, every trace of boredom is gone from his face.
“Seems a little high for a refund,” Linc says, and I can’t believe how fucking calm he sounds right now.
The guy behind the counter doesn’t respond to that. His expression is neutral, but the tense lines of his body haven’t eased. He’s watching. Waiting.
“We have a message for Niles D’Amato.” Lincoln raps his knuckles against the paper. “About the man he gave this too. Does Niles know Hollowell’s running for office?”
The guy still doesn’t fucking move or speak. He’s like a black hole, taking everything in but giving nothing back. No sign of what he’s thinking, no sign he’s even heard us.
But Lin
c continues talking as if the man and he are having a perfectly normal, two-sided conversation. I wonder fleetingly if this is from all the years he’s spent watching his dad negotiate high stakes business deals, or if it’s just something innate in Lincoln’s DNA—this ability to project an aura of complete control even if he doesn’t actually have it.
“We thought he might be interested to know what platform the judge is running on. Does he know that Hollowell is telling private donors the crowning achievement of his term in office will be wiping out the D’Amato drug ring?”
More silence greets Linc’s words.
Then the man moves.
The sudden motion after so much stillness is unnerving, like seeing a statue come to life. His hand slides across the counter and picks up the piece of paper Linc set down, raising it to eye level so he can look at it again.
He goes still again, and just his eyes shift our way as he says, “Come with me.”
He doesn’t wait to see if we’ll respond, just turns and heads through a little door to the back of the shop. This guy has a whole different type of power vibe than any of the kings do. His power is in stillness, in blankness. In a nonchalance so intense it makes my skin prickle.
As if he could kill all of us without a moment’s hesitation or a single regret.
That’s the less-than-comforting thought that fills my mind as we all follow the man into the back. Lincoln leads, Chase grips my hand so hard I swear I can hear my bones creak, and Dax sticks to River’s side like glue.
The man is several paces ahead of us by the time we clear the small door and head down the hallway that leads farther back into the shop. He passes what looks like a small office and turns left, leading us through a locked door and down another corridor. I try not to look around too much, certain that everything I see puts me in danger of having seen too much, but it dawns on me as we keep walking that we’re probably now in the back of one of the shops next door.
It’s smart, in a way. At least one of the buildings next to the cleaner is a front too, providing an additional layer of cover for the people who do business here.
We come to a halt outside another large, steel office door, and the man knocks twice with his knuckles. Then he opens the door and jerks his head to indicate we should step inside.
No turning back now.
22
My skin chills as we cross the threshold into the room, as if there’s some kind of invisible barrier we pass through as we enter. There isn’t, I know that, but there might as well be.
There really is no turning back now. No slapping our foreheads and saying, “whoops, wrong dry cleaner.” We’re in this until it’s over, however it might end.
The office is large, almost the size of the entire dry cleaning storefront, and the dominant piece of furniture is a large cherry wood desk. A man who’s probably in his fifties sits behind it, closing a laptop as he glances up at us. We’re obviously not what he was expecting to see, because his head jerks back slightly as his eyebrows twitch.
He’s got the kind of face that almost forces you to think it’s handsome. Not attractive by any traditional measures, but with such strong, dominant features that it’s hard not to be a little overwhelmed.
I don’t know who he was expecting to see in his office on a Monday afternoon, but it definitely wasn’t us. He shoots a curious, almost accusatory glance at the guy who led us in, as if already chastising him for wasting his time, but before he can speak, the guy holds up a hand.
“They’ve got an interesting story about Hollowell. Thought you should hear it.”
Niles D’Amato has a definite reaction to that, but I can’t quite tell what it is. It almost looks like… resignation.
Was he expecting this? Has he been suspicious that Hollowell would fuck him over?
The man from the front counter walks over and slaps the paper down on Niles’s desk almost exactly like Lincoln did with it earlier. Then he glances toward us.
“Tell him what you told me.”
Linc repeats his story, his demeanor as calm and controlled as ever. When he’s done, he gives a small shrug. “We just thought you’d want to know. Before he was elected.”
Niles’s dark eyes glitter like obsidian as he nods slowly. His gaze shifts from Lincoln to the rest of us, sizing up our motley little crew. He doesn’t ask how the four of us came by this information. I have a feeling the receipt we gave them, which he clearly recognized as his own, helps validate the rest of our story. We’re not lying about what we found, so why would we lie about what we know?
His slow perusal lands on me last, and I do my best to channel Linc’s aura of calm, even though I can feel Chase vibrating with tension beside me. He doesn’t like the way Niles is looking at me, and to be honest, neither do I. I’ve read books with anti-heroes who have strict codes of honor, who have no problem killing their enemies but would never consider raping a woman… but there’s no guarantee at all that Niles is that kind of “honorable villain”.
It’s entirely possible he’s just a bad, bad man.
My muscles tense, but I surprise myself by standing up taller instead of shrinking under his stare. My jaw locks and my lips press into a hard line as I glare almost challengingly back at him.
If he tries to touch me, the kings won’t let him. And I can’t risk them getting hurt trying to protect me. So the only thing to do is to make sure Niles doesn’t even attempt it.
His eyebrows draw together a little as he notices the shift in my posture, but finally, his gaze moves back to Lincoln.
“And you know this, how?”
Ah. I guess he isn’t prepared to just take us at our word.
“I know someone who donated to his campaign, and that was the promise Hollowell gave him. It’s what he’s using to sell himself.”
He doesn’t mention that the someone is his dad, and I’m glad. Mr. Black might be a philanderer and a fuckup, but like Linc said, he’s not the kind of guy to get involved in truly bad shit. And as much as Linc might hate him sometimes, I know there’s a part of him that still loves his dad. He has no problem letting him fend for himself when it comes to his reputation among his wealthy friends, but that’s an entirely different thing than giving Samuel’s name to a known drug trafficker.
Niles curses under his breath, in a language that doesn’t sound like English. I have no idea where he’s from—his words have no accent—but I can’t pick out a single thing he just said.
I can get the gist of it though, and the nicest way to put it is that he’s not happy.
“That son of a bitch.” He pushes to his feet as he switches back to English, shaking his head. “After what we did for him. Ungrateful. Disgraceful.”
He continues muttering as he reaches into his desk drawer, and when he pulls out a large black handgun, my blood goes icy cold. The kings and I unconsciously move closer to each other, forming a tight knot as Niles glances past us. When I shoot a look over my shoulder, I realize the man who led us in here has stepped in front of the door, blocking our way out—and he also has a gun drawn.
My hand has gone numb in Chase’s. I can’t even feel my fingers, but I don’t think it matters because I couldn’t unclench my grip if I tried.
Fuck.
Are they about to kill us just for coming here? Just for knowing too much?
My skin prickles everywhere, anticipation of a bullet tearing through my flesh making me feel queasy and weak-limbed.
But no bullet comes.
Niles steps around the desk, his weapon still grasped loosely in his hand. I recognize it from my one time at a shooting range as a nine millimeter, but that knowledge does nothing to make me less terrified.
“If he’s doing what you say he’s doing, that’s a very big problem,” Niles says evenly, his tone as calm as if he were explaining to a waiter that his soup is too cold.
Jesus. What do these men do with all their repressed emotions?
“But since you have no proof,” the man continues, da
rk gaze flicking over all of us again. “We need to go have a little talk with him to see what’s what. And you’re coming with us.”
For the first time, I see Lincoln’s facade of calm crack. He shakes his head, starting to move forward, but my free hand whips out and latches onto his wrist. I don’t speak, but the touch is enough.
He stops.
I can see him—feel him—vibrating with tension, but holds perfectly still until Niles waves his gun toward the door, indicating that we should step out.
While we were in their leader’s office, two more armed men positioned themselves outside the door, and now they flank us, guiding us down the hallway and out the back of the building. There are several dark SUVs parked out back, and all of them have tinted windows.
Another two men join us as the guy from behind the counter goes back inside. That makes it five on five, except every one of the men surrounding us is muscled and bulky—and most importantly, armed.
When they separate us to load us into two different vehicles, I start to shake like a leaf in a fucking hurricane. Dax and Linc are ushered into one, the doors slammed after them, and then Chase, River, and I are put into another.
I’m sandwiched between the two boys in the middle row of seats, but I can’t take comfort in their presence when we’re missing two of our group, and I can’t see through the fucking windows of the other car.
I can’t see.
Goddammit, I can’t see.
Acid burns up my throat as Niles and two of his men stand between the two cars, talking in low voices. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Niles is finally showing some emotion. He looks pissed about something, and I don’t like it one bit.
Then they split. Two men pile into our car, and Niles and the other two slide into the car where Lincoln and Dax are.
I catch a brief glimpse of Dax’s profile as the door opens and closes, then both cars’ engines rumble to life.
The other one pulls out first, driving down a narrow alley, and we follow behind. My gaze shifts to the door next to Chase, wondering if we’d stand a chance of escape if we yanked the car door open and threw ourselves out of the vehicle.