Chapter Twenty-Five
TWENTY-FIVE
Rocky
I’ve lost count of the amount of belligerent, debauched parties Trent has thrown at the Koning property.
Even summering at Stonehaven, he hasn’t packed away his inane strategy to piss off his little brother.
Every fucking Saturday, we have to babysit the estate like it’s a prized jewel and the thief is inside the vault swinging a hammer at it.
Trent’s tactic to gain the rest of the Koning inheritance is so harebrained that I lose brain cells trying to rationalize it. Jake will never just hand over the other half. Not even if Trent takes a shit in his bed every night.
It’s not happening.
And yet, here we are. Again.
All the parties vary on levels of depravity, but tonight’s is especially unhinged. Trent usually has a guest list, or at least a cap on people roaming the main house, lawns, and pool.
Tonight, I’d bet my soul (if I had one) that there isn’t a bouncer at the door.
He’s letting anyone in, and if I had to make a guess, some stupid prick from Caufield University spread the news of a “Koning rager” because it feels like every face I see can’t be older than twenty-two.
One blessing: Trent doesn’t know I’m here, or else I’d have to be glued to his hip like a mole.
Second blessing: Phoebe isn’t here, or else I’d be going out of my mind. Trent wants Phoebe too bad for him to just casually ignore her at a party.
So, yeah, I’m hanging on to those blessings while Jake and I roam the grounds to make sure no one fucked with the horses again.
My shirt sticks to my skin in the thick summer humidity.
Sweat beads up against the back of my neck.
Jake runs a hand through his hair, peeling back the damp strands that cling to his temples.
A shotgun blast goes off, followed by rowdy applause. Unfortunately, the sound came from inside the Konings’ mansion.
Jake clenches his jaw and closes his eyes in an exasperated beat. He can’t catch a break. I can relate, but my home isn’t the one being decimated from the inside out.
“Let’s go check the house,” I tell him.
We end up trekking back to the mansion. We pass a lewd game of croquet that involves stripping and hitting lines of white powder off hands. Firecrackers pop on the manicured grass, and college students in Caufield tees cheer on a topless girl doing a keg stand.
Jake has shaken his head so many times, he might need a chiropractor tomorrow.
Solo cups and beer bottles litter the backyard, and we don’t stay here for long to observe, lecture, or participate. We’re like missiles on a critical course inside the debauched mansion to ensure the kitchen isn’t up in flames.
Liquor bottles of tequila, vodka, and bourbon are everywhere. The bottoms of my leather shoes stick to the alcohol-covered marble.
“You want to set off the fire alarms again?” I ask. We did that last weekend.
“I can’t waste EMS resources.” He’s more honorable than me. (But we all knew that.)
The kitchen is intact. Outside of a young boy puking in the sink, and when I recognize him, I nearly groan. “Sandon.” Damian Bennet’s fourteen-year-old brother and our summer roommate at Stonehaven is being swept up in this shit. “Hey, man, you good?”
Since the Bennets are the third founding family of Victoria, I’m not shocked to see a boy this young with status and wealth at this party.
Seen it too many fucking times before. Lack of parental supervision combined with the pressure to succeed and live up to some family legacy, and you have a recipe for underage drinking and drug use.
He hoists a limp thumbs-up.
Jake hands him a rag. “You need to go home, Sandon.”
He groans out, “You go home, Jake.”
I almost laugh.
“This is my home,” Jake says lightly, then tells me, “Call Damian to come take care of him.”
I cock my head. “And you can’t do that yourself because…?”
Jake scans the opened cabinets that’ve been raided for snacks. He’s evading. “Because.”
“That’s not cagey as fuck.”
His annoyed eyes hit mine. “We had a thing.”
Ohhh. I laugh hard now. Jake eyes Sandon as if he’s an eavesdropping problem.
“He won’t remember shit tomorrow,” I say.
“You had a thing with Damian Bennet? And you’re just now saying something?
We’ve been living with the guy for over a month.
” Now that I think of it, I don’t recall Jake ever saying a word to Damian.
Have they even looked at each other? I rack my brain.
“We hooked up a few times, and it ended in a fight. We don’t talk.”
I let out a lighter laugh at a thought. “He asked to blow me the first week I moved to Victoria.” The party at the boathouse.
Jake isn’t surprised. “You let him?”
I think about Phoebe. “No.”
“Good call.”
“That bad in bed, huh?”
“Not great.” His expression says something darker.
Jesus. “I don’t want to know.” Picturing a guy hurting Jake makes me want to knock them out. Weird. And I’m not psychoanalyzing myself tonight, or the way that Jake cautions, “Just don’t sleep with him.” Like protecting me is the moral of this story.
I glower. Wishing I could just say the fucking words out loud. I’m with Phoebe. I grind my jaw. Instead, I say, “You know I’m with someone. Exclusively. I don’t fucking share.”
He starts to smile at that. I’d say he’s happy for us.
We hear a loud crash from above, and we look at the ceiling as the gold pendant lights rattle. Charting course for the second floor, I call Damian to collect his brother, then I shove my phone in my pocket and feel the vibration of my burner cell.
I stop in the curving stairwell with plush carpeted steps, and I dig it out. “Go ahead,” I tell Jake.
He waits four steps above me.
I glower. “I love the part where you listened to me.”
He tips his head. “I learned from the best.”
“Phoebe?”
“Who else?”
I widen my eyes in irritation, then check the message, and my blood runs cold.
(PHOEBE): We’re at the party. We have a girl emergency. Don’t freak out or try to intervene. All is good. Just looping you in.
All is good? My stomach churns thick acid. Why the fuck is she here? What emergency?
We all agreed the girls would steer clear of this party. I’m on a steeper edge when I glance upward and see Jake peering out of the circular window in the stairwell. His brows are knotted. Severity hardens his entire face.
That’s not good. “What?” I ask him and send a quick text.
EMERGENCY and GOOD don’t belong in the same sentence. What the fuck is going on?
“Come up here.”
I’m at his side in seconds. Out the window, we have a perfect view of the east grounds, where curved hedges form the beginning of a garden maze.
“Is that Phoebe and Hailey?” he asks. Apprehension cinches his deep voice.
My pulse skids. “Where?”
There are so many fucking people. Grinding, dancing, screwing, drinking. Glowsticks worn around necks and wrists illuminating bodies. Pops of vibrant color explode in the sky.
“By the fountain.”
I spot her.
Her dark blue hair blows in the sticky, humid breeze.
Her off-shoulder white linen dress looks beautiful on her, and under normal circumstances, I’d be happy to see Phebs.
She has an arm around my sister. I love how she loves Hailey so completely—just not when their bond goes to the extreme to where they would suffer for each other.
Hailey has her platinum-blonde hair in two braids. She wears black cargo pants and a matching mesh black top, standing out like the lone goth in a sea of prep.
Red Solo cups are in their hands, and I’m guessing Hailey has water in hers. Phoebe, no clue. It’s just a reminder my sister is fucking pregnant.
There’s still no one who knows that I suspect it. I think she might’ve told Jake and Oliver the truth yesterday. A sneaking suspicion based on Oliver’s insistence on role-playing scenarios where Trent peer-pressures her. And also Jake asking if we’ve ever failed a job before.
The short answer: no.
The long answer: it depends on the definition of fail. Have we fumbled and had to leave a city very quickly with less money than we desired? Yes. Have we ever been accused of fraud? No.
At least my sister told them.
I push down my thoughts to tell Jake, “Yeah, that’s them.”
Phoebe and Hailey disappear from our vantage point. Dread tries to wash over me.
Jake fixes his weighted gaze on mine. The same worry coursing in his blue eyes can be uncovered in my grays. We need to find them. Acid is in my throat. In my lungs. In my core.
After I show him Phoebe’s text, I try calling, but she doesn’t pick up. I shake my head with aggression. “What kind of girl emergency couldn’t they solve any-fucking-where else?”
He’s dialing a number, then frowns. “Hailey isn’t answering.”
The window rattles from the heavy bass outside. “Maybe they can’t hear the phones ringing from out there.” The music is excruciatingly loud when stepping out the doors.
We go silent as male voices grow louder from upstairs.
“No, really. I swear.”
“You swear?”
“Dude, he paid him to put it in her drink. I heard the whole thing. TK is planning to fuck Phoebe Smith tonight.”
TK as in Trent Koning Waterford.
Raw, brutal rage and urgency slam into me. I skip two steps at a time going downstairs to search for Phoebe. Jake is following without hesitation or conflict. We bump shoulders with guests in a narrow hallway, and I ignore the glares.
“Heads up!” a guy yells, cupping his hands up high. A porcelain vase sails through the air and lands in his palms like a football. College-aged students laugh shrilly and continue racing down the hall.
Everything is too fucking loud. It’s all piercing my eardrums.
We come upon a makeshift bowling alley with plastic bottles of vodka for pegs. I walk straight across their game, kicking aside the pins.
“Hey!”
“Booo! You fucking suck!”
“Grey looks pissed.”
“He always looks pissed.”
I entertain no one with a response. I’m gone.
Into the living room.
Out the side door. The remix of “Sweet Dreams” by the Eurythmics hammers into my skull. I can’t stand this song. It’s toxic fuel in my bloodstream. Feasting on my last fucking nerve.
“Grey!” Jake shouts, trying to catch up to my hurried pace across the patio. “Grey!” I’m not stopping. “Rocky!” And then, “brAYDEN!”
I feel his hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t.” I tear his arm off me as my shoes sink into grass.
“Call Trent,” he advises in a heavy breath. “Get to Trent first.”
“I can’t. I have to get to her. If he drugged her…” Nausea and ire barrel up my throat, scorching my voice. “You don’t understand. You can’t understand, Jake. I don’t lose sight of her in these positions! I don’t leave her like this! Not without her fucking brothers!”
His concern for me is so unnecessary and infuriating. This isn’t about my trauma, my past with her. This is about the stark, merciless present that doesn’t care what we endured yesterday, five years ago, or what we’ll withstand five years from now.
“You go east!” he yells over the high-octane tempo and earsplitting beat. “I’ll go west in case they left the garden!”
Breath tries to reach my lungs, but it’s on fire, charring me.
We break apart, and while I’m on a fast-moving hike east, I start calling the cavalry.
“What the fuck?” Nova answers groggily. “It’s two a.m., Rock.”
“Get your ass out of bed. You need to get here now.”
Adrenaline clears his voice. “What’s going on?”
“Grey! Come play with us!!” women shout from a beer pong table. I don’t waste time acting interested. I’m not saving face. I’m not playing a role.
I’m just trying to find her.
And fuck this song.
I fist the phone against my ear.
“Rocky?” Nova growls. “What the fuck is going on? You’re still at Trent’s party?”
“Yeah. I’m still here. Hailey and Phoebe showed up.” I grip the phone closer to my mouth to drown out the music on my end. “Phoebe might’ve been roofied.”
“Where is she?” I hear the slam of a car door. The ignition.
I’m on the east side of the mansion. On foot, this rave is mind-bending chaos as liquor drips down lips, as sweating bodies shift and dance and pack the area.
My vigilance sears the pits of my eyes. I’m barely blinking.
I’m searching and weaving between people, trying to reach the stone fountain.
Not stopping when girls grab my arm and call out my name.
I tear through them.
“Rocky?!” Nova yells when I don’t answer.
“I can’t find her.” I hear the deep, coarse grit in my voice. My flexed muscles are fiery, taut bands of rage and fear. I don’t relax. I can’t relax.
“My sister got roofied. And you don’t know where she is.” His fury is palpable, but it’s nothing compared to what’s brewing inside me. “You better fucking find her, Rocky. I swear to fucking God—”
“Who do you think I am?” I sneer back. “Get here.”
“I’m speeding.” I hear the rev of the engine.
Good. We hang up, and I call Oliver, who’s already at this party and going to split apart from Collin Falcone to search for the girls. I call Trevor, who’s been at the public beach all night looking for sea glass. He wanted to make Sidney a necklace for her birthday.
I don’t have time to ask if he’s still there. I just tell him, “Hailey needs you. I need you here.”
I hear a car rumble to life. Then I try to call Phoebe again. No answer. I hear Jake in my head, urging me to go find Trent instead of her.
I think I have a good idea where he might be.
It feels like I’m being torn in half. Split in two. But I change course for the Konings’ pool.