Reckless At Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels Book 3)

by Callie Hart

  This makes him laugh. “Wow, you must be super fucking high if you’re talking about college.”

  “Soooo high,” I confirm.

  Cam looks at his daughter, passed out in a set of scrubs Dr. Romera gave her, and wipes his hand over his face. “I can’t say I approve of you going after Jake on your own like that, but it makes sense. She’s been through so much. I probably would have done the same thing.”

  “Of course you would. You love her.” A rush of tingling euphoria crests in my chest as another wave of the meds washes over me. For a moment, I feel really fucking good, like I just dumped a whole heap of MDMA down my throat. “Have the cops shown up?” I ask. It’s inevitable. I’ve been waiting for them to roll in here en masse and start with their questioning. It’s standard protocol to interview people, naturally, but someone died tonight. There’ll be an investigation without a shadow of a doubt. I’ll be interrogated and harassed until they somehow make Jake’s death my fault. And I can hardly defend myself by saying I went out there to shake hands and bury the hatchet with the dude. I was gonna fucking kill him.

  “Don’t worry about the cops,” Cam says. “Apparently, this whole nightmare’s gonna be handled by the DEA directly.”

  Jesus. I don’t know if that’s better or a million times worse. Nothing’s really making much sense right now. “Can you do me a favor, man?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

  “So long as it doesn’t involve breaking you out of this place, then sure. You need to stay here overnight at least. You took a pretty bad beating.”

  I’ve had way, way worse. How fucked up is that? I just smile brokenly at Silver’s dad, though. “Get her outta here, will you? I’m so sick and tired of her being pulled back to this place. It’s fucking depressing. And she wouldn’t say it, but it makes her anxious.”

  Cam nods, studying the girl asleep on the chair. Cameron and I have very little in common, but the fact that we’d both do anything Silver makes us more alike than either of us would care to admit. “Yeah. I reckon I can do that,” he says.

  She doesn’t even wake up when he lifts her into his arms and carries her out of the hospital room.

  It’s somewhere in between very late and very early when my next visitor arrives. He enters the room at around four thirty in the morning, carrying a Styrofoam cup and a brown paper bag full of fast food. Lowell’s hair is all messed up, and there are dark shadows under his eyes but he’s alert—sharp, in a wired, hyper focused way that happens to people when they drink too much coffee. Or take way too much speed.

  I’ve been waiting for him.

  He doesn’t say anything until he sits himself on the chair by the bed, pulls a burger out of the paper bag, removes the lid from the Styrofoam cup, dumps a sugar into the acerbic-smelling black liquid inside, stirs it, and has himself officially situated.

  “I had this sister,” he says. “I always used to look up to her. She was a lot older than me. Our parents thought she walked on fucking water. No matter what shit was going on at home or whatever, Dee was always in charge and in control. She never lost her cool.” He takes a big sip from his coffee, raising his eyebrows when he realizes it’s too hot. He swallows regardless. “Our dad was a fighter pilot. And then he joined the police force when he came out of the air force. Natural progression, everyone said. He was a hard guy to live with, but Dee knew exactly how to handle him. She got away with murder. Me, on the other hand? I was a major disappointment. Never good enough. I couldn’t put a single foot wrong. Denise was accepted into the DEA and she was his fucking hero, serving her country. I joined the DEA, and I was a lazy, worthless piece of shit who couldn—”

  “Hate to interrupt.” I shift uncomfortably in the bed, wincing. “But I’m a little messed up at the moment. Any chance we could save the family history for another time? Y’know…go grab lunch and really get into it. Bring out the photo albums. Everything kind of hurts at the moment, and I’m struggling to care about the Lowell family dynamic, fascinating thought it sounds.”

  The agent shoves the burger into his mouth and takes a monster bite. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he mumbles around his food. “I’ll paraphrase. Dee was a bitch. She got too caught up in the job and went off the rails. Your friend Zeth there—”

  “We’re not friends.”

  “God, can you just shut up and listen for five seconds? Zeth was her white whale. You read Moby Dick, right?”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  Detective Lowell takes this as an affirmative and continues. “She could never pin that motherfucker down, and it drove her mad. She broke protocol. Completely lost it. I won’t bother with the details, but the Weavings? They were my white whale. The whole fucking family.”

  Huh. I wasn’t expecting that. Ever since he showed up in Raleigh, the DEA agent’s been by Jacob’s side. He’s been on him like white on rice. Jake was so sure that Lowell was in his back pocket from the way he was talking before he pointed that gun at me. Not to mention the way Lowell went after Silver, trying to make out like she concocted the whole rape plan and made up the entire attack that happened at Leon’s.

  “So you went rogue to catch your white whale, too?” I surmise.

  Lowell bites. Chews. Swallows. “There are a lot of rules when you work for an organization like the DEA. They can be a little restrictive. I’m good at…”—he shrugs— “…bending those rules from time to time, if it means I get the job done in the end. The higher ups wouldn’t like it, but hey. What they don’t know can’t hurt ’em, right?” He finishes his burger in four bites and immediately takes out another one. “Didn’t like having to treat your girl like crap there, dude, but it was a necessary evil at the time. You feel me?”

  Am I supposed to nod or something? Tell him his bizarre and unorthodox way of doing his job is all right by me now that Jake’s dead? Fuck it, maybe it is all right by me. He put a bullet hole in Jake’s skull, and he saved my fucking life. It’s all over. Silver won’t even need to stand up in court now, which is fucking huge.

  “The Weavings drove my grandparent’s farm out of business when I was a kid. They tried to salvage what they could of their livelihood once Caleb and his crew began forced sales in the area, but it was impossible. The Weavings ruined them. My grandfather ended up committing suicide to avoid the debt and the shame. So you could say I’ve had my eye on that asshole my entire life. Can I tell you something?” he says, leaning in close.

  “I feel like you’re going to anyway.”

  “I watched all the pieces fall into place with the Weaving case, and and it was obvious what was gonna happen. Caleb was going to wriggle his way out of that shit. No doubt about it. And that asshole’s son of his was gonna walk, too. Too much power and money changing hands. Give it another couple of months and both of them were gonna be released with no recourse for their actions. I wasn’t gonna have that. So yeah. I made Jacob trust me, and the moment he gave me justifiable cause, I put that fucker down like dog that he was.”

  Wow. Stone. Fucking. Cold. I hated this guy from the moment I set eyes on him, but looks like I had him wrong. Honestly, I have no clue what to make of him now, but shit. Jake’s dead. That’s all I fucking care about.

  “I took care of the paperwork.” Lowell slumps back into the chair. “You and your girl, you’re free of all this shit. My way of saying sorry for how strong I came on. You can go about your lives and wash your hands of the whole business.”

  Glorious, glorious relief. It feels so much better than the drugs coursing around my system. We’re free? That feels…damn, I can’t even describe how good that feels. “And what about you? What about Caleb? He’s gonna be out for blood when he hears you shot his precious boy in the head.”

  Lowell smiles, absently drumming his finger against the arm of the chair. “Oh, yeah. Caleb. Heard this morning that there was an incident at the prison. Not sure what went down really. Some kind of fight over a toothbrush. Caleb Weaving was stabbed in the neck in the prison yard. Didn’t make it.
Very unfortunate turn of events.”

  Very unfortunate indeed. I can tell the guy’s super broken up that Jake’s father avoided justice by bleeding out on the snow in a prison exercise yard. He looks positively distraught right now.

  Hah.

  “And Zeth? What about him? He shot Monty.”

  “Actually…” Lowell frowns. “I know nothing about Monty. There was only one body found at the scene. And…I’ve never met Zeth Mayfair in person. If I did meet the guy, I’d probably have to kill him.”

  I know perfectly well what I saw. And from the odd, secret smile on Lowell’s face, he knows what I saw, too. This is the line he’s sticking with, though, and I’m not going to argue with him if he wants to give Zeth a free pass. For some unknown reason, the guy helped us out…and I’m grateful to him for that.

  43

  ALEX

  Two Months Later

  Emancipation’s a powerful word. It holds an ocean of power within its five syllables. For a long time now, it’s been a word that has taunted and eluded me. It’s held me back from so many things, because it was always out of reach. But today, a sunny spring day in April, I have finally been granted my emancipation, and it feels oh-so-bittersweet. I’m free today, because today is my eighteenth birthday.

  “You know, I had the whole thing planned out,” I say, staring up at the sky. The wind’s still a little cool, but the sun’s out. Wispy, thin clouds slowly float from one side of my vision to the other, forming and disintegrating before they can even properly come together. Cirrus clouds. My favorite kind. “We were gonna drive all the way down the PCH to San Diego. Our first Moretti boys’ road trip. I was gonna take you to the aquarium there. We were gonna swim in the ocean and ride bikes on the strand by the water. When we got back, I was gonna take you to the pound and I was gonna let you pick out a dog to bring home with you. To our house. Fuck, I hope you know…”

  How perfect it would have been.

  How well I would have taken care of you.

  How badly I wish I could change this.

  How much it hurts when I even think your name.

  I swallow hard, clearing my throat. Laying on my back in the cemetery wasn’t how I’d planned to spend today. I was going to keep myself busy. Keep on moving, keep my mind occupied until the day was over and done with, but all of those plans disappeared the second the sun came up. I got out of bed before six, careful not to wake Silver, and I left the apartment, my feet guiding me here all by themselves. I couldn’t have altered my path even if I’d wanted to.

  “I think I always knew…in my heart…that you liked living with Jackie. I knew she was good for you, even if she was a bitch and she kept trying to come between us. And…I think I made you feel guilty for liking her. I’m really sorry about that, man. That…that wasn’t fair.”

  When Ben first went to live with Jackie, I talked shit on her constantly. I used horrific terms to describe her that my brother had probably never even heard at that point. I called her a whore. I called her a cunt. I called her a cunt a lot, which I now regret. Jackie wasn’t a cunt. She was a threat to me, as I was a threat to her. And in between us, trapped between our shared states of anxiety, anger and fear, a little boy had tried to survive while being torn in two different directions.

  No matter how scared I was that Jackie wanted to take Ben from me for good, it was shitty of me to speak badly of her in front of him. He was just a fucking kid, and Jackie was truly the only mother he’d ever known. I only have a handful of faded memories of our mom, and some of them are really painful, but at least I have them. Ben was too young to remember her at all when she died. I hate that he didn’t get to know her even a little.

  “It’s stupid to be so sad all of the time. It’s okay. I loved having you as my big brother. You were pretty great at it. You built the best forts. And you always knew what I should do if I another kid was picking on me. You made me feel safe all the time. I liked feeling safe with you.”

  One night, three and a half years ago, after a particularly harrowing beating courtesy of my old pal Gary, I pledged to myself that I would never, ever cry again. I curled up on my side amongst the thin, dirty, bloodied blankets I slept in, and I let myself bawl. I was hurt, and I was in pain, and I was scared about what was going to happen to me, so I let myself sob into those filthy blankets, and when I was done, I said enough, no more, never again.

  I broke that vow the night I read Silver’s email, where she described what went down at Leon Wickman’s spring fling party. I broke it again the night she was taken into hospital with rope burns around her neck. And I break it now, as well. I permit myself three tears that course, hot and quick, over my temples, into my hair, before I dash the wetness away with the back of my hand.

  “I didn’t keep you safe though, did I? If I had, you’d be here. We’d be halfway to fucking Oregon by now.”

  My younger brother’s voice remains quiet in my head this time. Even my own subconscious can’t think of anything to argue that point. The fact is that I’m never not going to feel responsible for this.

  Across the cemetery, a woman bows down before a headstone, kneeling in front of it. It’s still early, eight maybe, but she’s dressed in a suit, ready for the day. She’s probably going to work once she’s done here. She’s calm. Serene, even. She made her peace with the death of her loved one some time ago, and this morning’s brief sojourn amongst the headstones feels more like visiting an old friend than trying to dig broken glass out from underneath her skin. I’m making assumptions by the handful, naturally, but the way she laughs quietly as she talks to her loved one sounds easy and relaxed.

  It’s going to be a long time before I’ll be able to affect that same level of ease in front of this headstone.

  The ground’s so fucking cold. I laid my leather jacket out before I laid down on the damn grass, but the chill from the earth has managed to seep through it and into my bones without a problem. I try not to think about how cold it must be for Ben, eight feet beneath me, lying in his coffin. I try not to imagine the state of decomposition his body is in now, four months after his death. Another tear slips past my defenses, a fresh surge of pain lancing through my side, right into the center of my chest.

  “Oh, fuck…” I drag in a shallow sip of air, trying to force the agony into submission, but it won’t be leashed. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Ben.” I throw my arm over my eyes, blocking out the sun, pretending not to feel the fresh onslaught of tears that fall. For the first time ever, I hate myself for not believing in God. If there’s no God, then there’s no afterlife, and that means Ben can’t hear me now. There should be an afterlife. If anyone deserved one, it was my brother. He was just a fucking kid—

  “I find counting helps.”

  I jerk upright, coughing for no good fucking reason. It feels as though I just got caught doing something dirty. The woman from across the cemetery is standing eight headstones over with her purse clutched tightly in her hand. She’s blonde. Forty. Forty-two. In a light black trench coat and a formal black pant suit, she looks like she could be a bank manager. With a sorry tip of her head, she looks at the carved marble behind me and sighs. “When children die, the world never seems to be able to right itself on its axis again. I’m sorry for that.”

  I don’t know what to say. I just stare at her, willing her to leave so I can pretend like I wasn’t just sobbing in public. With a cursory swipe of my hands, I scrub my face, sniffing hard as I breathe in sharply. “Yeah. Well.” That’s all I’ve got.

  The woman hangs her head. “Like I said. Counting helps. In for four. Out for four. That’s how I remembered to breathe for a really long time. Eventually, you’ll be able to pause in between and it won’t even feel like you’re about to crack open.” She smiles sadly again, nodding like she’s fielding some pretty painful memories of her own. “Something to look forward to, I guess.”

  She goes. Doesn’t try to talk me out of crying, alone, in a graveyard. Doesn’t ask if I’m okay. Doesn’t try
to convince me that I should leave, or get better, or get on with my life. She continues on her way, without telling me her name or asking me mine, because our names aren’t important. We understand each other just fine without them. And we both know words are pointless when it comes to this kind of hurt.

  “You should go home, Alex. Silver’s gonna be worried about you.”

  “I know, man. I know.” She’ll have woken up by now and found my side of the bed to be empty and long-cold. Bailing on the apartment first thing was a shitty thing to do, considering that she’s been planning on cooking a birthday breakfast for me for weeks now, but I needed to get this out of the way. If things had been different, I’d have been on my bike this morning, sitting outside Jackie’s house before the dawn, ready to take Ben back home with me, come hell or high water. He would have been expecting me. When I woke up at four this morning with this restlessness in my soul, this tremendous weight sitting on my chest, it felt like he was still expecting me, and to get up and eat breakfast and go about my day without going to him first? Well, I just couldn’t do that…

  Now that I’ve visited my brother and said my piece, it is time to get back to Silver. I take one last long, shuttered breath, trying to manufacture a little positivity for the day ahead, when I look up and there she is, walking toward me across the cemetery with a large basket in her hand.

  I blink, making sure I’m not seeing things, but the image of her, dressed in blue jeans and a pretty, white, lacey top beneath her red peacoat persists instead of vanishing. She’s here, in the cemetery. It’s as though I’ve conjured her here, simply by acknowledging how badly I need her all of a sudden.