Steel Crew : Books 1-3 (Steel World Box Set Book 7)

by Mj Fields

  The next text reads:

  - You were given an opportunity as a test, and you failed. Watch your back.

  Again, no signature, but I know exactly who these scare tactics and threats are coming from.

  The next text reads:

  - You came after us. We’re coming after you.

  I tap out a response.

  - My list of haters has grown leaps and bounds since starting at Suckshore, but my list of fucks given hasn’t. Your inability to sign your name shows that you’re just a bunch of pussies hiding behind a screen. You don’t scare me, and that’s the … ~ TRUTH.

  I copy and paste it in the first message then hit send, then the second, and then the third.

  The phone blows up as I start to set it down, all different numbers from before. One by one, I open them.

  - Conquest

  - War

  - Famine

  - Conquest

  - War

  - Famine

  - Conquest

  - War

  - Famine

  - Conquest

  - War

  And the last:

  - Keep your family out of this, and we will, too. Involve them, that’s on you.

  Then more and more messages pop open, all different phone numbers.

  - Conquest

  - War

  - Famine

  - Conquest

  - War

  - Famine

  - Conquest

  - War

  - Famine

  - Conquest

  - War

  - Famine

  They keep coming until I finally shut my phone off.

  The words—conquest, war, and famine—refer to three of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. The one they left out, the fourth—death.

  When my door opens, I jump up and gasp.

  “Jesus, Truth.” Justice laughs as he walks toward me. “You watching scary movie clips again?”

  I nod.

  “Sit down and get your leg up,” he says as he walks toward me, shaking his head.

  I sit back and do just that. Justice then lifts my leg, props the pillow under it, and puts the cold compress back on my ankle.

  I hear a sound and jerk my head toward the window.

  Justice laughs and starts walking toward my door.

  “Wait—tell me about your time with Bella and Tags.”

  He looks back and laughs again. “You don’t wanna hear about it.”

  “Yes, I do,” I say adamantly.

  “Like hell you do. You’re scared. Let me grab my pillow and blanket, and I’ll be back.”

  I don’t even deny the fact that I want him in my room, because I do, and that’s the truth.

  Chapter Eight

  Idiom

  What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

  Truth

  Let’s hope so.

  I wake up listening to the all too familiar sound of my alarm, “Love Myself” by Hailee Steinfeld, and smile to myself, expecting Mom to come in and start dancing around my bed like she does every school day. So, when I hear her tiptoeing in and there’s no, “Ready to dance your way through the day, Tru?” I am confused.

  As she turns off my alarm then tiptoes back out the door, I remember yesterday and the night before. I remember Justice sleeping next to me because, apparently, my one night of badassery was kicked in the tit by a text invasion by the horsemen.

  I cover my head, close my eyes, and try to go back to sleep. I try, and I try, and I try, but it doesn’t happen, and I know why—I need to face shit head-on.

  I scoot to the edge of my bed and pull the blanket off my head. I then grab my phone and turn it off airplane mode. There is only one message, a group message from the girls.

  - Good luck today ~ Kiki

  - Break a leg … but not really ~ Brisa

  When I scroll through my old messages and see all of them except the two I received yesterday morning are gone, I sit straight up in bed. “No fucking way.”

  Justice … shit. He must have seen and erased them, which would make perfect sense, but what makes no sense is that he didn’t wake me up freaking out.

  I send him a quick text.

  - Morning. We good?

  - No. I’m fucking exhausted, and you’re sleeping in.

  - Chat at lunch?

  - Hitting the gym with Max and Amias. You got the girls and Patrick.

  He’s not letting on one bit. Ugh!

  - Chat after school?

  -Everything good, T? You’re acting like a freak. Still hiding under the blanket?

  - Fuck off.

  - That’s better. See you soon.

  I lie in bed for a while, wondering what Justice knows about last night. He didn’t mention a damn thing. He simply laid next to me and droned on and on about the special that Convicted Ink, Bella and Tags’ reality show, is doing starting in September and how awesome all the artists are. Some are from overseas, they came for a chance to compete in the twelve-hour challenge that starts at midnight and lasts until noon the next day. He also told me that they would have started earlier, but they specifically chose those hours so Bella, Tags, and Luna could come see me in the play.

  I feel a bit guilty over that fact, because none of them know how serious I am about not applying to any colleges for dance anymore. I’ll tell him tonight. And maybe today, I’ll let my Mom know, too. I’m holding off on telling Dad because, as much as Mom loves dance and it was always her thing and her mother’s, Dad has been the one who pushed me the hardest to become the best I could be. And if I’m honest, it was always him who I looked at during final bows, his applause always my favorite.

  If Patrick told Justice about Saturday night, which I assume he did, it was probably why he busted into my room last night. The fact that I was terrified by stupid high school bully tactics was probably why he decided to hold off on the TED Talk.

  I’m not afraid now, though, and yes, I am well aware that it’s because it’s light out, but still …

  So, basically, today, I’m going to go to school and face those assholes, and if one of them says shit about me or to me, or looks at me wrong, I’m going to go full Steel on them. And tonight, after dinner and when Justice is done playing chess with Mom, I’m sure I’ll get the talk.

  I decide there is no way in hell I’m going to fall back to sleep, so I roll out of bed and cringe when I step on the floor. It’s probably a good thing I’m going to the doctor’s today. This hurts like a bitch. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll tell me I can’t dance for six months, and then I won’t disappoint anyone when I blow off the auditions for colleges.

  After showering, I pull my light pink toothbrush out of the holder, brush my teeth, and then rinse the bristles of my brush. I put my toothbrush back into its hole then splash my face with water before rubbing my light pink face wash into my skin. Then I rinse and pat it dry with a hand towel covered in tiny ballet slippers before applying toner followed by moisturizer.

  When the condensation lifts, I lean in and notice a new blemish forcing its way onto my skin right above my lip. I huff.

  My skin has never been too acne-prone, so the occasional blemish really irks me. The last time I had one was after the solos for the recital were posted. Stress is seriously a hazard to my skin.

  I open my bathroom drawer and reach in to pull out the bin containing everything I use every day and decide, fuck full face makeup today. I apply a tiny little bit of concealer on the new blemish then a tiny bit of lip tint, followed by a couple swipes of black mascara. Then I shove all the products back into their spots before grabbing the blow dryer and round brush.

  While drying my hair, I look up in the mirror and nearly jump out of my skin when I see Mom standing behind me. The brush and dryer go flying.

  When the brush hits the mirror and I see a crack, I start to cry.

  Mom quickly turns off the dryer and pulls me into a hug. “Oh, Truth, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay, Mom
. I broke the mirror. Do you know what that means?” I sniff.

  She takes my face in her hands and turns me to look back at her. “It was my fault.”

  “I broke it!”

  “And it means nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “It’s bad luck. Not just bad luck, but seven years of bad luck. Jesus, isn’t sixteen enough?”

  You’d have thought I slapped her by the look on her face.

  “I’m sorry. I just …” I pause and slap the tears from my face. “It’s bad luck.”

  “Your father wears a broken mirror, tattooed on his chest, and he’s the luckiest man I know. So, no, Truth, it’s not bad luck. It’s just a broken mirror.”

  I shake my head and look down.

  “Do you think maybe you need to talk to someone?”

  “I’m not crazy,” I tell her.

  “Neither am I, but I can tell you talking to someone when you can’t talk to anyone else because you feel like no one else would understand helps in ways that I can’t even explain.”

  “I’m not you.”

  As soon as the words fall out of my mouth, I immediately wish I could erase them.

  “I know.”

  I look up at her. “Mom, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “I know that, too.”

  “I’ve had a good life. I didn’t lose—”

  “Truth, it’s okay.”

  I shake my head.

  She bends down and picks something up off the floor. Then she takes my hand. “Let’s go use my vanity.”

  “No, it’s fine, really.”

  She holds up the box she picked up. “I bought this round brush dryer thing. I wanted to try it on your hair and see if it lives up to the hype.”

  The round brush blow dryer was something I looked at online. She must have seen me checking it out.

  “Come on; let me do your hair.”

  After being buzzed in, I walk down the main corridor, the Hall of Achievements, as they call it, wearing a boot, because I have a severely bruised ankle bone. I begged Mom to let me keep it off during school hours because, let’s be honest, I need no help drawing attention to myself.

  The framed musical posters have been removed, and in their place is information for the junior prom and different sporting schedules.

  It’s eerily quiet in the empty hall without the normal chatter and squeaking shoes of students and administrators. I should like it—not running into anyone—but I don’t.

  I pass the middle school hallway, which smells of pubescent students’ rank pits and smelly sneakers, masked with perfumes and colognes, even though it’s not as pungent as our old school. The ninth and tenth grade wings aren’t half as bad, unless you happen to use the bathroom during shark week, when everyone’s period seems to sync. Not that the upperclassman bathrooms are much better, but at least they have a firmer grip on hygiene.

  When I get to the doors leading to the courtyard that I have to cross in order to get to the upperclassman area of the school, someone calls my name from behind.

  I look back and see Tobias Easton walking quickly toward me.

  “Fuck off,” I huff as I push the door open and hurry out of it.

  When I feel my backpack get jacked back, I turn around and look up at him. “I don’t know who the fuck you think—”

  He pulls me toward him, and the door slams behind me. “You’re a fucking detriment to yourself and an annoyance to me.”

  I push his hands off my hips. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Or what?”

  I pull my phone from my pocket, hit my messenger then the Steel crew group chat, and hold up my phone. “I’ll have four guys here to show you or what.”

  “I just saved your ass from getting busted by the door, and you’re gonna be a bitch?”

  “Wouldn’t have needed to be saved if you didn’t jack me back, and it wouldn’t have needed to be saved the other night if you and your little posse hadn’t invited me to see your little show,” I spit.

  “Don’t kid yourself; I didn’t invite you anywhere. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty fucking sure I told you to stay the hell away from me.”

  “Don’t kid yourself; I never came looking for you.”

  “You broke into my house.”

  “Your door wasn’t locked,” I snap.

  “You took pictures of my fight.”

  “Like hell I did!”

  “Prove it,” he hisses.

  “Prove it?” I huff.

  “Show me your phone.”

  “Fuck you,” I say as I start to turn around.

  When he jacks my phone from my hand and turns his back to me, I reach around him to grab it back, but he holds it out farther.

  “Jesus, I’ve never seen so many selfies in my fucking life.”

  “I’m a freaking teenager; that’s what teenagers do.” I walk around him, but he holds the phone up too high for me to reach.

  “Where are the fucking pictures?”

  “I told you I didn’t take any damn pictures. Now give me my phone or I swear I’ll—”

  “Text your crew?” he says, shaking my phone back and forth tauntingly.

  “I’ll kick you in the nuts, and if you don’t think I can, think again. Your minuscule target is no match for my big boot.”

  He looks down. “Fuck.”

  “Don’t worry; no one knows where it happened, besides Patrick and Brisa, so feel free to stop sending texts asking me about my head—or was it my leg?—and then getting butt hurt when I don’t reply. And then … and then sending your little ponies to text bomb threats. I’m not afraid of you, or any of them.”

  “The fuck are you talking about?”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Do I look like I’m fucking around? What are you talking about?”

  I’ve had enough.

  “I didn’t take pictures, you … asshole. I had my phone out, taking notes.”

  “This is no joke, Truth,” he spits my name as if it’s venom poisoning his mouth.

  I snatch my phone back then open my notes before shoving the screen in his face. “See!”

  He scans the screen, and a hint of confusion crosses his bruised face. “Why the hell would you do that?”

  “Because your footwork sucks, because you need someone to coach you. Because you’re strong as hell, but lazy in the ring. Because you had no one in your corner. Because I was under the impression that, maybe we’d never be friends, but we could at least be cordial.”

  “Never gonna happen.” He shakes his head. “Never.”

  “Fine, but now that you see”—I scroll to my recently deleted pic file and hold it up—“that I didn’t take a damn picture, call off your ponies.”

  “I sent one text. One.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t believe you weren’t behind the others. War, famine, conquest over and over until I shut it down. The only one they didn’t say was death, so you covered your asses if went to the cops. And you’re lucky Justice deleted all those texts, or I—”

  “I didn’t have shit to do with it.”

  “If that’s true, which I don’t for one second believe, call them off and tell them to stop threatening my family, or I will bring you all down.”

  After collecting the missed assignments from the morning, I walk down the hallway toward my locker to grab my lunch. When I turn the corner, I hear whispers as I walk by. I can assume they’re about me.

  I could hold my head down, trying to hide in my hair, as I had previously, or I can hold my head high with my nose up as a figurative finger to their bullshit, which is exactly what I do.

  I look at them all, expressionless and unreactive to their snickers, as they assess me from the top of my head, all the way down to the tip of my big-ass boot.

  When I see Gabrielle coming toward me with her little crew of wannabes, I could easily step aside, but decide fuck that. Not only do I decide fuck that, but I make damn sure my shoulder hits hers.

  “
Watch it, J. Lo,” she sneers, and her posse begins to giggle like the little bitches they are.

  I turn and yell behind her, “No, bitch, you watch it!”

  Silence falls in the halls filled with plastic people, hearts void of empathy and compassion, and souls that are hollowed as hate-filled eyes cast down on me.

  “I’m not afraid of any of you, so you all watch it. Do you hear me?”

  “Truth!” I hear Max boom from down the hallway and look at him as he walks toward me.

  “Little incestuous cult,” someone—Nina, I think—whispers loud enough to cause everyone in the hall to not only hear it but look at me and snicker.

  Max walks straight up to Nina, pushes up on his tiptoes, grabs the back of her head, and pushes it down slightly. “Thought that was you.” He lets go of her and steps back. “Didn’t recognize you off your knees and mouth void of my dick.”

  “Fuck you, Max Steel!”

  “Oh, God, Max, please don’t tell me you let that touch you.” I cringe.

  “She was horny, I was bored, staff lounge was unoccupied.” He throws his arm around me. “Let’s go.”

  “Why the hell would you let a mouth like that touch—”

  “Hold that thought.” He stops and turns around. “Don’t judge me by my past mistakes, ladies. I’ve yet to find my better half, so keep the wildly inappropriate texts coming.” He turns back to me, winks, and then looks back again. “And if I don’t return the message, just remember I’m a one girl at a time kind of man and you may be next.” He smirks at me. “Now let’s jet.”

  With lunch in hand, I walk into the cafeteria and see Kiki, Brisa, and Tris waiting for me at our regular corner table. All three are looking down at their phones; none look happy.

  I hurry to them, worry coursing through my veins. Dropping my lunch bag on the table, I ask, “What’s going on?” as I pull my phone from my pocket.