Bile floods my mouth, and adrenaline charges through my veins. She’s such a lousy mother, and I don’t get it. Why is it that good couples, with the disposition and means to raise kids in a loving environment, struggle to conceive while this junkie gets knocked up without even trying? Where is the justice in that? My heart aches for that kid. What kind of future awaits him with a mother like that? I know Darrow has pulled her up on her shit before, but he’s rarely home, and it’s not like he can do much.
Grabbing a hundred-dollar bill from my purse, I thrust it at her. “I know you don’t like me, and I really don’t care. But I know you know where he is. Tell me, and it’s yours.”
Her scowl deepens, and I know she wants to tell me to screw off. But she needs the money more. She snatches it from my hand like a greedy shrew. “He’s partying at Galen Lennox’s place.”
Shit.
I arch a brow, waiting for her to elaborate, but her lips pinch closed. “And where is that?” I prompt, biting back a frustrated sigh. Bitch knows I’m from Lowell, the next town over. That I don’t attend Prestwick High with my boyfriend—her brother. And even though I have a suspicion where that asshole lives, I don’t have time to waste driving aimlessly around town if I’m wrong.
She thrusts her palm out, and I grind my teeth. If it wasn’t for the baby in her arms, I’d punch her in her heavily made-up face and demand an address. But she is holding her son, so I’m forced to play nice. I slap a twenty into her hand, daring her to challenge me with a deadly look. Mood I’m in, I’ll come back and pummel her ass to dust just for shits and giggles. We enter into a silent face-off, and I keep my eyes locked on hers, refusing to back down.
She folds first, bouncing the baby up and down as he continues to cry. “Forty-one Thornton Heights.”
She moves to shut the door in my face, but I plant my foot in the doorway, stopping her from closing it. “Don’t shove it all up your nose. Buy your son some clothes and formula. I’ll be mentioning this to Darrow.”
“Fuck off, slut. Mind your own goddamned business.” She kicks my foot away, and the door slams shut.
I head back to my car, plug the address in, and set off for Galen Lennox’s place.
I know who he is.
Everyone does.
Because The Sainthood is revered around these parts.
The organization is one of the oldest criminal enterprises in the US, with chapters in most states, but the gang started in Prestwick, and it’s the largest branch with the most power.
It’s split into two levels—junior and senior. The junior chapter controls the schools and teen drug supply and generally lays down the law among their peers until the members successfully pass initiation and “jump in.” Then they become members of the senior or main organization, and successors take over their crown at the junior level. Typically, the transition occurs once the members graduate high school.
All the local gangs are structured similarly, and regular crew wars are the norm. The Sainthood are known rivals of The Arrows, the crowd Darrow runs with, and I’m guessing Dar’s presence at this party is a way of pissing The Sainthood off. While Darrow has Prestwick High locked up tight, The Sainthood rules the hallways at Prestwick Academy, and they own the streets. The Arrows are small fry, and Dar despises The Sainthood because they have what he wants—control, respect, loyalty, and fear.
I could do without this tonight, but I need the distraction of sex and alcohol more, so I drive toward the nicer part of Prestwick where Galen Lennox lives.
Bile fills my mouth as I pull up in front of the familiar house. Cars, trucks, and bikes are parked haphazardly across the wide front lawn as I drive up the sweeping driveway. I pull into an empty space in front of the monstrous gray brick two-story building and kill the engine. Swiping the bottle of vodka from the passenger seat, I hop out and head toward the open front door.
Chills creep over my spine as I step foot into the gloomy hallway. A massive chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting dim light over the marble tile floor below. Mahogany stairs extend upward on either side of the lobby, the steps covered in a drab green carpet that has clearly seen better days. Cobwebs cling to the high ceilings and cornices, and a thin layer of dust obscures the pictures of ancestors covering the walls as I walk toward the sound of the thumping music.
My heels make a clacking sound as I walk through the depressive corridor decorated in dark wood panels and dull green and gold wallpaper. I remember how creeped out I was the first time I was here, but it’s worse now with the added obvious neglect. I pass a succession of tall, mahogany-stained doors, all closed with no sounds of life, so I continue toward the music.
Reaching the end of the hallway, I turn left and head straight for party central.
I step into the vast room, glancing at the vaulted ceilings adorned with expensive chandeliers and the myriad of windows draped in heavy ruby-red velvet curtains. A DJ spins tunes from an elevated dais at the end of the room, but other than that, the room is completely bare of furnishings. At one time, this was an ornately decorated ballroom, host to lavish parties that were the talk of the town, but it’s clear no one is looking after this place anymore.
A large crowd dances on worn hardwood floors while others sit in clusters on the ground at the edge of the room, talking, laughing, smoking, and drinking. I inhale the scent of weed as I walk through the space, keeping my eyes peeled for Darrow, but I don’t spot him or any of his crew.
Exiting the ballroom by the rear door, I head outside. Sounds of laughter filter through the air as I step around the outside of the property toward the back patio. My feet slam to a halt at the sight of the overgrown maze, and I allow my mind to wander back to that night. I was only a kid, which is why I didn’t recognize the address even if I remember every other detail of my last visit here.
I uncap the vodka, chugging it down my throat, welcoming the burn and latching on to it rather than letting the memory unfold.
I press on, my feet picking up pace as I round the bend and spot several of Darrow’s gang. A group of about twenty is lounging by the old pool, huddled around a makeshift bonfire, sprawled across garden chairs and loungers. The pool is empty now, save for the leaves and debris cloistered on the old blue-tiled floor.
I stop in front of the lounger Bryant Eccelston is lying on. Bryant is Darrow’s bestie and number two, and where one is the other is never far. A cute blonde is draped around his broad five-feet-eleven-inch frame. “Where is he?” I ask, drilling him with a look.
“Cute outfit.” Bryant smirks, taking a slow perusal of my body, his gaze lingering on my chest out of habit.
“Cut the crap, Bry. Where’s Darrow?”
He cocks his head to the side, and the flickering light from the bonfire highlights the deep scar running from his left eye across his temple and into his hairline. “He’s back there.” He jerks his head backward as his lips kick up ever so slightly. The blonde on his lap giggles, sending me a smug look as she wraps her arms around his neck.
Ignoring the theatrics, I walk in the direction of the pool house, swigging from the vodka bottle, willing it to hurry the fuck up and numb my pain.
The door is open, and I push inside, hearing them before I see them. It’s not a surprise. Not after Bryant’s carefully staged intervention outside.
I walk across the living area, sidestepping crumpled beer cans, stale pizza boxes, and wrinkled clothing, listening to the pants and groans emanating from the bedroom, cursing that dickhead under my breath.
I open the door with a flourish, leaning against the doorway as I watch a bimbo with brash red hair ride my boyfriend’s cock. She’s really going for it. Bouncing up and down on him like she’s on a bucking bronco. Darrow’s pelvis lifts as he grips her hips, sweat gliding across his chest, as he groans in pleasure, thrusting up inside her. She moans, throwing her head back as she succumbs to the sensation.
And I know how good it feels, because Darrow’s got a big cock and he knows how to use it.
<
br /> “Hey, asshole,” I say, taking another swig of vodka as I watch them.
“Lo! Shit!” Darrow’s eyes pop wide as he finally notices me. “Don’t overreact,” he pleads, his expression turning frantic. He shoves the redhead off his cock, and she falls to the floor, hitting her temple against the side of the bedside table. He stands, his erect dick saluting me, as he steps over his fuck buddy, ignoring her cries and cusses, making a beeline for me.
“Dar,” Tempest whines, climbing to her feet. “Forget about her. Come back to bed.” She fondles one of her big tits, while her free hand rubs the bruised skin on her forehead.
“Shut the fuck up,” he snaps, glaring at her over his shoulder.
Her lips thin, and a muscle ticks in her jaw. Then, her features smooth out, and a wicked glint shimmers in her eyes.
“Spit it out, bitch,” I say, holding up a palm to stall Darrow’s forward trajectory.
“He’s been fucking me for weeks, any chance he gets,” Tempest purrs, grinning smugly as she walks toward us.
I raise the bottle. “Good for you. It’s only taken you, what, about two years to worm your way into his bed?” She wraps her arm around Darrow from behind, but he pushes her off. “We’ve all watched your pathetic seduction attempts, but perseverance obviously pays. You should be proud.” I smirk, drinking another few mouthfuls of vodka.
“Oh, I am proud. I’m very proud, because I’m clearly a much better lay than the high-and-mighty Harlow Westbrook.”
“Shut your face, Tempest, or I’ll shut it for you,” Darrow hisses at his fuck buddy, looking like he’s seconds away from losing his shit.
“Not my fault you can’t hold on to him,” she adds, taunting me further because she’s got fluff between her ears.
Darrow loses it, slapping her across the face, and I wince as her head jerks back.
“Real classy,” I deadpan, glaring at the asshole. I’m not a fan of Tempest. I actually cannot stand her, but no one deserves to be treated like that. If he had ever dared to lift a finger to me, I would have slapped him back and then tossed his abusive ass to the curb. But Tempest will cling to him like a limpet because she has zero self-respect and even less intelligence.
“She’s no one,” he says, reaching for me. “A hole to fuck when I’m bored. It means nothing.”
The desperate look really doesn’t suit Darrow, and I’m wondering how I’ve put up with him this long. He was a means to an end, and he’s outlived his usefulness. Now, I get to walk away like the injured party, and I can keep my secrets close to my chest. It’s neater this way. Tempest has done me a favor. Not that she’ll ever hear that from my lips.
I snort, and they both pin eyes on me. “You two dumb fucks deserve one another.” I push off the door frame. “Enjoy my sloppy seconds.” Tempest glares at me, and from the way she’s clenching her knuckles, I know she’d love to take a pop at me. “I was done slumming it anyway.”
“Lo, wait. C’mon. You know I love you.” Darrow makes a grab for me, and I promptly knee him in the nuts. He drops to the ground, cupping his dick, as he roars out in pain. I lift the vodka bottle, ready to pour it over his head, before I think better of it.
I’m not wasting good Grey Goose vodka on that cheating slimeball.
“Enjoy your ho, and lose my number.” I hold my head confidently as I walk off.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I say, blowing Bryant a kiss when I walk past Darrow’s crew, looking like I haven’t a care in the world.
Bryant ditches the blonde and chases after me. “You deserved to know,” he says, falling into step beside me.
I glance at him, knowing exactly why he did it. “Like I said, thanks.”
“Wait.” He grabs my elbow, stalling me. “He was never right for you anyway.”
My lips twitch. “And I suppose you are?”
“You know I am.” He runs a hand over his shaved black scalp, his hazel eyes confirming everything I’ve suspected.
“Yeah, that shit’s not happening, Bry. Go back to Blondie.” I don’t wait for his reply, shucking out of his hold and slipping through the back door into the house.
Fuck that asshole Darrow. I really needed to fuck all this shit out of my system tonight. I hug the vodka bottle to my chest. Guess Mr. Grey Goose will just have to do the job instead.
I’m halfway down the hallway toward the entrance lobby when he calls out to me. “Lo! Wait up!”
I glance over my shoulder, spotting Darrow shoving his way through the crowd at the doorway to the ballroom. Ugh. I’m not in the mood to hear his cringeworthy excuses.
I don’t have much of a morality code, but cheating is a hard pass for me.
He’s burned his bridges, and I was done with him anyway, so there’s nothing he can say that will make me change my mind.
I’m done fucking him, and I’m done talking to him.
It’s not like there’s a shortage of hot guys in Lowell, and I’m finished experimenting in Prestwick.
“Fuck my life,” I mutter, racing to the nearest door, yanking it open and darting inside. I lock the door from the inside. Exhaling heavily, I turn around, my breath faltering as I instantly realize my mistake.
Or, perhaps, it’s fate meddling, and I’ve been led here tonight for a reason.
Four pairs of eyes stare at me with varying expressions. The guys are seated around a circular table playing cards. Lighting is real low, the only illumination coming from two lamps, one on either side of the room. Smoke clouds swirl overhead. The smell of tobacco mixes with the heady scent of Mary J.
The guy with the cropped dirty-blond hair swivels around in his chair, stretching his long jean-clad legs out in front of him, his gaze trekking over me with blatant interest. Piercing blue eyes penetrate mine, and I hold his intrusive gaze with one of my own.
His face is a masterpiece of epic proportion. Strong nose. Plump lips. Full, high cheekbones most girls would kill for. His wide ice-blue eyes are framed with a layer of thick black lashes. His chin is coated in a stylish layer of stubble. His left eyebrow is pierced, and tattoos covers his exposed arms and hands right to the tips of his fingers. It’s too dark to see them clearly, but it’s an impressive display of ink. His black T-shirt stretches across an impressive chest and bulging biceps, and he is drool-worthy in the extreme.
He’s hot as fuck, but from the smug tilt of his lips, he knows it too.
A throat clears, dragging my attention away from the guy who can only be Saint Lennox, leader of the junior chapter of The Sainthood. A guy as feared as he is desired.
My eyes lock on Galen Lennox next. Where his cousin Saint’s gaze held curiosity as much as a threat, Galen is all cold, hard lines, his expression reeking of tension and disbelief. His jade-green eyes bore holes in the side of my head, and his ripped body is taut, on high alert, ready to strike at a second’s notice. Colored tats cover one arm, creeping up the side of his neck. He rubs his plush lips, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, as he dips his head, his brown faux hawk pointed in my direction like he’s wielding a weapon.
I don’t respond well to threats of any kind, so I push off the door, straighten my spine, and walk toward the table as Darrow pounds his fists on the door outside. “Lo! Open this fucking door right now!”
The guy with dark hair and intense brown eyes cocks a brow in amusement. He drums his fingers off the table, shooting a look at Saint. He’s built like a tank. Wide shoulders. Broad chest. Biceps bigger than my head. Muscular legs that snugly fit the dark jeans he’s wearing. His expression is the warmest. His gaze bounces from Saint to me to the door behind me. He must be Caz Evans—the muscle. Stories of his brutal strength are legendary around these parts. He’s killed men with his bare hands if they are to be believed.
I stop in front of Saint, placing my hands on my hips, challenging him with a look. I feel the daggers Galen sends my way, but my focus is singular and locked on their leader. Saint’s notorious cool blue gaze meets mine, and a spark sizzles between us as we stare at
one another up close for the very first time.
The Arrows and The Sainthood are sworn enemies, and they don’t make a habit of socializing together, but I’m sure he’s heard of me. The same way Darrow would know if any of these guys were dating. Saint’s heated gaze burns through my skin, and fire blossoms in my chest. An ache spreads lower, my core pulsing as attraction, instant and fierce, slams into me.
“Saint.”
Our connection is broken at the sound of his husky voice, and my head whips around. My jaw clamps shut as our eyes meet. His expression conveys so much, but it’s too damn late. Pained hazel eyes latch onto mine, and the tsunami builds in intensity inside my chest.
I pride myself on my ability to keep my emotions on lockdown, but this day is seriously fucking with my head. Between Dad, Darrow, and now stumbling across The Sainthood, this day couldn’t get much worse.
Theo Smith is the fourth member of the gang and he’s also drop-dead gorgeous, but in a different way. His long sandy-blond hair falls to the nape of his neck, tucked behind his ears in a messy, bedhead style that is extremely sexy. He scrubs a hand along his stubbly jawline, holding my gaze, the unspoken plea obvious. For a tech wizard and financial mastermind who is known to be sharp as a tack and cool under pressure, he sure looks rattled now.
He should be.
Because he’s a liar and a coward.
And he knows I know.
“Harlow Westbrook!” Darrow is close to breaking point if he’s using my full name now. “Open this fucking door, and stop being such a sensitive bitch.”
I relax my jaw, loosening my features and planting an amused expression on my face, as I refocus on Saint. He stands, eyeing me with a calculating look that manages to be darkly sinister and drenched in lust at the same time. Shivers course all over my body, and I’m so aroused my panties are soaking.
I’m close to six foot tall in these heels, and Saint still towers over me. I visualize his large frame covering mine in my mind’s eye, elevating my desire a notch higher. Heat from his body crashes into me, both soothing my ragged edges and tending the flames building to an inferno inside me. I place my half-empty vodka bottle on the table, planting my hands on my hips again. “Well?”
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