Beyond Vengeance: Pacific Prep #3

by R. A. Smyth

  I absently nod my head, not once removing my gaze from West’s face while Hawk gets to his feet and heads outside to make his call. He leaves the door open though so we can still see each other.

  I lean down so our faces are inches apart. “West?” I murmur softly, running my fingers through his hair, ignoring how the strands feel wet and sticky.

  “Firefly,” he whispers so quietly I barely hear him. “Not safe.”

  “It’s okay,” I reassure him. “Hawk and I are here. Whoever did this to you is gone.”

  He tries to nod his head, groaning at the pain that little movement causes him. I press my forehead to his, not giving a shit that he’s sweaty and bloody.

  “I’m so sorry,” I murmur. “This is all my fault.” My voice breaks and tears fall onto his closed lids, making them flutter.

  “Shhh,” he soothes, wincing as he lifts his arm, cupping the back of my neck. He manages to peel his eyes open, and it takes a second for him to focus his gaze on me. The pain I see in them only heightens my guilt. “This was not your fault,” he insists in a tight voice, sounding hoarse from lack of use.

  “It was. I was the one that said we should go against them. Look what they did to you,” I croak. “They beat the shit out of you. They broke your glasses.” A broken sob escapes me, and he lets out a pained chuckle, which quickly morphs into a groan as he winces. “I have a spare pair, don’t worry about them, just kiss me.”

  I press my lips to his, needing to be as close to him as possible to reassure myself he’s actually alive. Intending to keep it quick, knowing he’s not exactly in the right condition for a prolonged, dirty kiss, I go to pull back, but his hand on the back of my neck holds me in place as he deepens the kiss.

  A snort behind me has us breaking apart and I glance back over my shoulder.

  “He can’t be that bad if he’s able to kiss you like that.” Hawk scoffs, looking disgusted as he comes toward us. “Right, man, let’s get you up. The others are on their way.”

  West gives a small nod of agreement, and between us, Hawk and I manage to get him on his feet.

  “Fuck, everything hurts,” West groans. “Why the hell you and Mason do this to yourselves for fun is beyond me.”

  Hawk gives a small laugh. “Well, we don’t usually go so hard.”

  West grunts and we start moving. All conversation ceases as we focus on taking one step at a time. The sweat is dripping off West’s forehead by the time we’ve reached the far end of the boathouse. Before we’ve even made it to the edge of the forest, Hawk and I are supporting pretty much all of his weight, making my thighs burn.

  Rustling and the sound of footsteps has my body tensing while Hawk awkwardly tries to shield a more or less passed out West with his broad frame. The two of us share a quick glance as we wait to see who’s out here with us.

  When Mason, Cam, and Beck come bursting out of the trees, I let out a breath of relief. I don’t know what we would have done if the mercenaries that beat up West were still around. I’m not sure how many I could take at once, and with West’s condition, we need to get him back and check him over for any internal injuries.

  Spotting us, all three of their eyes widen as they see the state of West.

  “Fuck, are you okay?” Cam asks, looking him over.

  “He’ll live,” Hawk answers bruskly. “But we need to get him back to the dorm.”

  Mason steps up in front of me obviously intending to relieve me of West’s weight that I’m supporting, but I hesitate, and glance at Beck. The same concern is in his eyes as is in the others, and I can see he wants to help, but he’s holding himself back, unsure what West would want.

  Stepping out from under West’s arm, Mason takes up my position, and he and Hawk manage to carry West through the forest, with the three of us silently trailing along behind them. Sensing what a nervous mess I am as I worry about the extent of West’s injuries, Cam reaches out and wraps his hand around mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Holding on to him, I link our fingers together and hang on to his small act of comfort as we slowly walk back to the guys’ apartment.

  It takes forever for Hawk and Mason to navigate up the stairs while carrying a nearly passed out West between them, but eventually, we all make it and the two of them get West settled on the sofa.

  Cam rushes off to get his spare pair of glasses while I sit down beside him. Sliding my palm into his, I take some comfort from the warmth of our touch—a solid reminder that the blood is still flowing through his veins, telling me he’s alive.

  “Should we call a doctor?” Hawk asks Mason, the two of them eyeing West critically. He’s sitting with his head resting on the back of the sofa, his eyes shut, only cracking open a lid when Cam returns and hands over his glasses. Putting them on, his eyes drift shut again, his face scrunching up at a flare up of pain.

  “I dunno.” Mason purses his lips.

  “Of course we should,” I argue. How could they think otherwise?!

  “It would be our parents' doctor,” Hawk explains, making me realize their indecision.

  “No doctor,” West groans, peeling his eyes half open. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re clearly not fine,” Beck snaps. His expression is dark and angry, but I can feel the concern coming off him in waves as he hovers uncertainly behind Hawk and Mason, watching West like…well, like a hawk.

  He thinks on something for a second before stepping up beside Mason. “I’m by no means medically trained, but I’ve seen and patched up my fair share of battle wounds. I can take a look…if you want.” He tacks on the last few words, giving away how unsure he’s feeling. Usually he acts all tough and confident around the guys, but right now, he wants to be here for his brother, to help in some way, but he’s got no idea how or if West would even want his help. The rocky state of their relationship breaks my heart. The two of them need each other more than they realize. West needs to wise up soon before Beck gives up trying altogether and he misses out on what could be a pretty incredible relationship.

  West hesitates, and I give his hand a squeeze, silently asking him to try. For his sake and Beck’s.

  “Yeah, okay,” he relents with a sigh, sounding too tired to argue.

  Giving Beck a small, reassuring smile, I help West remove the tattered remains of his shirt while Beck asks one of the guys if they have a first-aid kit and to get it for him.

  I gasp as West’s body is revealed. Bruises are beginning to form over his ribs and abdomen, and there are a few shallow cuts scored along his chest, the straight lines giving away the fact they were carved by a blade. I’m going to murder whatever fucker thought they could get away with that.

  It’s obvious the wounds are superficial. Intended to make a statement rather than do any actual harm and, honestly, I’ve seen far worse damage on some of the kids after they came out of the ring at the compound. The difference is that I didn’t give a shit about any of those kids. Sure, I empathized with them; I felt bad for them, but I didn’t have a smidgeon of the feelings I have for West.

  Other than Meena, I’ve never had to see someone I care about get hurt, and as I watch West wince, his breathing shallow as he tries not to inhale too deeply and spark a flare up of pain, the bloodthirsty assassin within me screams out for retribution. It’s a debased part of myself I usually keep locked up tight, only letting her out to play when I’m on a job or my life is on the line. Since leaving the compound, I haven’t had to become that person—other than when I finished off those two mercenaries—but right now, I welcome the coldness that seeps into my veins as my baser instincts rise to the surface, both dulling and heightening my emotions as I burn the fuckers’ unknown names into the muscle around my heart, promising myself their death at my hands.

  I move out of the way, giving Beck space to assess his brother as he approaches with the first-aid kit. His gaze roams over West, assessing the damage, his face pinching when he spots a particularly nasty-looking discolored patch over his left kidney.

  We
all watch as Beck pokes and prods West, inspecting his cuts to make sure they’re as superficial as they look.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” West growls when he flinches for the fifth time under Beck’s touch, grunting as the move causes him pain.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Beck groans frustratedly, getting irritated at West’s lack of trust in him, and fixing him with a look that says ‘stop being a baby’. “My friends and I were constantly patching each other up when we were kids. It’s not like we could go to a hospital with every possible broken bone or deep cut. No one in Black Creek could afford healthcare, and gang life isn’t a career path that comes with health insurance, so you quickly learned the basics of examining, disinfecting, and stitching up any sort of injury.”

  Despite the obvious pain he’s in, West watches Beck closely, scrutinizing his every move. “What if it was life threatening?”

  Beck shrugs indifferently. “Then you probably died before anyone could do anything. Maybe a buddy or someone would have driven you to the hospital, but if you were lucky enough to live after that, you’d be saddled with a hefty bill that would only push you into taking greater risks for whatever gang you were working for. Risks that would ultimately get you killed later down the line anyway.” Beck paints such a hardened, bleak picture of Black Creek that has me feeling sorry for any kids that have to grow up in such an environment. I was sent quite a few times myself when I was out on a job, and I have made a couple of contacts there, but it’s not a place I’d rush to visit any time soon. The people there are all hardened by the things they’ve had to see and do. Their souls are black, or various shades of gray at best. I always got the heebie-jeebies when I was there. That ick feeling when far too many unwanted eyes are watching your every move. Even with my blatant ‘leave me the fuck alone’ face on, it never stopped cocky shitheads who thought they were all that because they carried a weapon and wore special gang tats from approaching me, thinking I’d happily fall all over their dick just because they thought it was cool to be in a gang. Honestly, for the most part, everyone there is a bunch of children, playing at being tough, and fighting over territory like it’s their favorite toy. The whole lot of them need to grow the fuck up.

  “Some of the bigger crews, like The Feral Beasts or the Antonelli’s would have had a doctor or medical person under their thumb who could sort out any gnarly wounds, but anyone who wasn’t a part of their crew, or any gang at all, just had to hope no injury was too serious.”

  It’s the way Beck says all of this so casually, like that’s just how things were, like it’s normal, that is the most devastating, but it’s all incredibly fucked up. I don’t know what happened that resulted in his mom finally dragging them out of there, but I’m glad she did. Based on the worry lines that form on his forehead and the way he glances down at his Reaper Rejects tattoo on his forearm with a dejected look in his eye, I know whatever happened was something bad. Something that he’s carried with him, alone, for far too long.

  As Beck says all of this, he continues his careful prodding of West, all the while ignoring West’s eyes as they scan over his face. The way West is looking at him, with a sad and thoughtful look in his eyes that I noticed last time Beck opened up and shared some of his childhood with us, has a spark of hope igniting within me. Hope that one day these two can get past their differences.

  “Well, what’s the verdict?” Hawk asks as Beck gets to his feet, finished with his assessment.

  “The cuts are all superficial. They just need to be cleaned and bandaged to ensure they don’t get infected. His ribs and kidney are bruised, but I don’t think anything is broken. He’ll be stiff and sore for a few weeks, but he’ll be fine.”

  “Good.” Hawk’s voice is gruff, and if I wasn’t coming to know him better, or see how much he cares about these guys, I’d think he didn’t give a shit, but his gruffness is chock-full of emotion that he doesn't know any other way to express.

  Taking the kit from Beck, I slip back into my seat beside West and begin cleaning him up as the guys talk around me.

  “So are we all thinking this was our parents?” Mason begins, taking a seat in the chair opposite me as Cam brings over beers for everyone before he sits on my other side.

  Resounding yeses come from everyone except West who hisses when the antiseptic I’m using touches his cut.

  “It definitely was,” he assures us, looking a bit more alert than he was earlier as he looks around the room at everyone. “There were three guys. They wore masks so I couldn’t see their faces, but the way they moved was similar to the guys that attacked us at Christmas. They were so coordinated, and the level of precision…” He trails off, shaking his head, sounding both impressed by their skills and aggravated that he got jumped. “It was obvious they were highly trained and used to working as a team.”

  I grit my teeth and focus on stopping my hand from shaking with anger as I move on to clean another cut just beneath his pec. I’m going to gut every single fucker who touched him, then I’m coming for the conniving sickos that call themselves our parents.

  The roaring in my ears as I try to control the rage consuming me drowns out the continuing conversation around me, and I’m only pulled out of it when the loud ringtone of a phone going off penetrates through the red haze coating my mind.

  Everyone looks at Hawk, whose lips are pressed tightly together as he stares at the phone before answering. Immediately putting it on speaker for the rest of us to hear, he tosses each of us a look to be quiet.

  “I’m disappointed, son.” Barton’s voice comes out clearly across the speakerphone as he sighs. “I thought we told you to continue the tradition with the girls, yet we had to find out through another source that our own sons were defying us?” He snarls out the last few words. It’s the first time I’ve heard him sound anything other than indifferent, and it’s the first hint at the darkness that lies within him—the same controlling darkness that is in all of our parents.

  “We wanted—” Hawk begins.

  “I don’t care what you wanted,” Barton yells down the phone. “You will do as we say. You will all go back to the old tradition with the girls.”

  He waits silently for Hawk to agree, but Hawk hesitates, looking at each of the guys for confirmation.

  “Tonight was only a warning,” Barton threatens when Hawk takes too long to respond. “We can do a lot worse. And not just to Westley.”

  Sighing silently, Hawk agrees—it’s not like he has a choice.

  “Okay. We’ll start up the tradition again.”

  “Good. And Elizabeth is to join in too, for now. We’ll let you know when that changes.”

  What the fuck is that supposed to mean? The five of us share confused, worried, and angry glances; no one sure what exactly Barton means by those cryptic words.

  Hawk looks at me, as if waiting for my confirmation that I’m okay with that, but, just like him, I have no other choice, so I give a reluctant nod of my head in agreement.

  “Okay,” Hawk responds to his dad.

  “Good. Pick someone for her. You know who’s suitable. Take this as the warning it was intended, son. Next time, do better.”

  With that, Barton hangs up, leaving us all staring dejectedly at one another, working out what the fuck we’re supposed to do now.

  Chapter 14

  I spend the night with West, the two of us sleeping fitfully. He tosses and turns all night, struggling to get comfy with his injuries, and his restlessness keeps me awake.

  At five a.m., I give up and slip out of bed, grabbing a pair of sweats to pull on underneath the oversized t-shirt I borrowed last night before I sneak out the door. I creep down the hall, not wanting to disturb any of the others so early. It was after two before we all went to bed, exhaustion getting the better of us after the day’s events. It felt like we got nothing sorted last night though, the conversation going round and round in circles as we discussed what we were going to do about this stupid tradition, and ultimately,
what our plan was to get rid of our parents, because it’s become abundantly clear we can’t continue to live under their rules and restrictions. I refuse to let anyone else dictate my life for me ever again, and I won’t let them drag the guys deeper into their shit, or tarnish Beck’s soul further with the horrendous job they’ve asked him to do.

  I pause in the threshold into the open plan kitchen and living space, studying Beck as he sleeps on the couch wearing only his boxers. His blanket is on the floor, having kicked it off at some point during the night. He refused to leave last night, and thankfully, no one argued with him, the others understanding his need to be close to his brother after everything that had gone down. Even if they had taken issue with it, I wouldn’t have let him walk out of here. I needed to know all of us were safe last night, and the only way to be sure of that is if we’re all together.

  Instead of heading toward the kitchen for coffee, I veer off course, moving on silent feet toward a softly snoring Beck. Careful not to disturb him, I ease my knees onto the cushions on either side of his hips and hover over him. My eyes drift to his Reaper Rejects tattoo as I once again wonder what happened in his childhood. He’s alluded to the loss of someone close to him, but he’s never volunteered more information, and I’ve never asked. He doesn’t push me to tell him anything I’m uncomfortable with, so I won’t do that to him. I trust when he’s ready to share, he’ll let me in—and hopefully, the others too.

  Twirling around the tattoo are various black tribal designs, which extend all the way down to his wrist, and up to his shoulder, intertwined with other, smaller, designs that have a smattering of color in them, making them stand out. From this angle, I can make out a compass with the words ‘stay true’ scrawled underneath, an image of a tree bare of leaves, and another one of an hourglass with the sand mostly run through.

  Following the designs until my gaze lands on his face again, I can’t help but stare at him. He’s stunning when he’s awake—all rugged handsomeness and wicked intent—but he’s beautiful when he’s asleep. The tight lines that far too frequently mar his face fade away, letting his true age show through. He’s so much younger than you’d think when you initially look at him. His past, his life experiences, have hardened him, both on the outside and the inside, but he’s not much older than the rest of us. Yet, he’s trying to take the weight of all of this on his shoulders so the guys and I don’t have to. I know that’s why he’s never mentioned what our parents are making him do. He’s willing to risk the guys not trusting him if it means he can let all of us be kids a bit longer. It’s selfless really, but how much is bearing that burden alone going to cost him? I’m thankful that he opened up to me the other week, and hopefully now, he knows he’s not as alone as he thought he was.