Chapter 31
Scarlett
If it weren’t for all the life-or-death business we’re embroiled in, I’d be having the time of my life right now.
The boys are so snuggly and friendly and cuddly with each other.
I’d kick my feet in cute-aggression-induced ecstasy, but I have an image to maintain.
Right now, I’m the slouched, sexy yakuza bitch that’s in charge of this operation, wearing ink and nothing else as I lounge in the warm waters of the bathhouse.
My boys are secluded in their own tub, heads bent together while they gossip and give me such serious fucking FOMO that I almost miss what Emma Jean is saying.
“—gang violence and vandalism,” she continues, discussing our Snow Day results with me.
The mystery of the bulldozer-turned-tank is forever shrouded in threats and Prescott lore, hidden away behind plywood and graffiti.
Larron Van Gordon, on the other hand, is pure sensationalism.
Social media loves a good murder mystery.
The armchair detectives and internet sleuths are on the case, humming with theories.
The mayor’s missing political opponent, dead?
His son, standing at the gravesite with a horde of delinquents as an audience? Seen in the past wearing the very cuff links found on the man’s body!
His other son, dead in the ocean with his Mustang, leaving nothing behind but a severed foot?
Public opinion is split three ways, with one faction eying the mayor in suspicion and disgust, calling for an investigation.
Another, picking up their signs in protest of his innocence, marching to the beat of he helps people, he would never!
And the last? Well, surely, all that Prescott gang violence is to be blamed. Shrug.
“What you’re trying to say is: people know all about Larron and the destruction we wrought, but nothing about the killdozer.
Great. What else?” I sigh as I lean my head back, steam rising around me as girls giggle and bathe, brush one another’s hair, splash and play.
It’s nice to see and hear, my crew having fun like that.
“Mayor Kelly is attempting to use the media to turn things around on us. The death of his housekeeping staff is being blamed on his renegade son and the poor company he keeps, that same gang violence nonsense.” Emma sighs, scrolling on her phone and sweating as she runs through notes with me.
The poor creature is dressed in a pale pink one-piece with yellow daisies on it, pink-cheeked and fading away in the heat of our delicious bathhouse.
Nisha is a goddess, butt naked and lying on her back along the porcelain edge of the oversized tub.
Hype is curled up like a gremlin in the corner nearest Nisha’s head, listening in and cataloguing every word that’s said with fierce, dark eyes.
Bastian is seated beside me, wearing an American flag Speedo.
“Blaming his sins on Ash? Seriously? I’m so shocked.
” I yawn and drop my chin, staring through the steam at Emma Lee Addison, the citizen who was turned into a journalist because the powers that be decided to fuck her over just a little too much.
The people can take a lot if you give ‘em bread and a circus, but they can’t take everything.
Some tragedies transform the ordinary into the incensed.
“You’re not concerned?” Emma returns, picking at the neck of her suit like she’s nearing her limit with the heat.
“Mayor Kelly seems to be doing just fine without Trish by his side. Based on what I’m seeing on social media, there might be a protest at the Stars and Stripes race.
He’s claiming that you sabotaged the construction of the affordable housing units out of spite, that you’re a NIMBY with ties to the mob.
His exact words were, a Russian mob princess with a billion-dollar husband is afraid to see her old haunt utilized by the poor and less fortunate. ”
There’s a splash as I drop both arms into the water, running my inked left hand with my wedding rings along the ink of my right arm.
Contemplating. Fighting back frustration.
In a battle like this, the first question that has to be asked in response to any retaliation is this: what is he trying to make me feel?
“A protest? A bunch of middle-class people with signs? The fuck is that gonna do? I’m racing whether he likes it or not.
” I give Emma a look. “And a NIMBY, for real? I am the poor. I was born and raised in Prescott, and that’s all we are: destitute.
So what if I got a lil’ gold digging going on now.
Is the mayor a charity case? Last I heard, he has bandz stacked to the roof.
Apparently from stealing and selling organs to other politicians, which doesn’t surprise me in the least.”
“What’s a NIMBY again?” Bastian mumbles, half-asleep in the warm, floral-scented waters.
“Not in my backyard,” I answer with another sigh. “I’m not surprised. Ad hominem attacks are proof that we’re winning and Kelly is losing. How about Chet Senior? He still plannin’ to show up at the strip club on Christmas Eve?”
I can barely keep the disdain from dripping off my words.
What sort of man goes to a strip club on a holiday?
Only a true scumbag, so at least Chet is consistent.
Is he seriously unaffected by Cody’s death?
What a monster. No wonder the brat turned out as rotten as he did.
An apple can mold on the branch. It doesn’t even have to fall off the tree, and Cody’s certainly didn’t. He was the spitting image of his dad.
“So he says,” Hype answers, taking Emma’s place.
Hacking is Han Ji-Ah’s job. She’s been monitoring Chet’s conversations on the sly.
We haven’t acted on any of that information yet for fear of spooking him.
We only need to spook the bastard once, and that’s at the strip club on Wednesday. “No changes there so far.”
“Excellent.” I stand up, hot water cascading off my curvy form and full breasts. Emma blushes and looks away. Bastian doesn’t see women in that way, so he’s neutral. Hype closes her eyes, like she’s trying to be respectful of her girlfriend or something.
Bohnes? He looks at me like a snack and licks his lips, sweeping his fingers through his wet, white hair and ogling me shamelessly.
Widow is eagle-eyed and possessive, fists clenched at the idea that anyone but my husbands see me naked.
Ash rises with me, unwilling to be left behind in case I try to leave the room.
Alexei, fully-dressed and sitting in a chair next to my tub, is understandably critical.
“Explain to me again why you’re allowed to show off your body to anyone you please and the four of us are ascetic monks in that regard?”
“What’s ascetic mean again?” Bastian asks, still half-asleep.
“It means, for some reason, that Alexei wants to show off his dick to the world. Not sure why though.” I splash my husband and he ruffles up in terror of contamination, like an angry cat.
“Ascetic means boring and deprived for spiritual reasons.” Widow yawns, showing teeth, also like a cat.
Bohnes exists, perpetually murderous, again, like a cat.
Ash? Kawaii as a kitten.
One of my girls—ADHD Juana, this time—bounces excitedly into the room through the outside door, scurrying over to me and whispering in my ear.
“They’re here. Out front on the driveway.”
Nisha cracks one eye to look at me, sighing wearily.
She’s tired. I’m tired. We’re all tired.
Being on-edge, worrying about assassinations and smear campaigns, it really wrings a person out.
Finding a black widow on the property took me a while, too.
Getting a brown recluse for my next meeting with Trish could be even more difficult than that.
But maybe that won’t be necessary? I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.
“They make it?” she asks, and I nod.
“They did.”
“Who are they?” Emma asks, sounding anxious.
“I’ve been trying to dig into the organ-harvesting accusations, but there’s not much.
If it’s true—and I’m sure it is—then it’s very well covered up.
I have that video of Pierce Cranston arresting the couple from the apartment building.
I have another video of Valeria Navarro receiving them at the Housing Dignity for Lane County office.
That’s about it. I can’t even say for sure that the video of Valeria was taken before the arrest—”
I climb out of the bath, spilling water onto the river rock floor with its many drains.
How…convenient. This is a good kill room.
I knock myself in the side of a head with a fist. I’m not supposed to be thinking of stuff like kill rooms. I won’t have any need for a kill room after this business is done.
Alexei rises to his feet, staring down his patrician’s nose at me.
Despite his annoyance with my blatant nudity, he wraps a big, fluffy towel around my body and drags me in close.
The edges of the towel are gathered together by his gloved hands, cocooning me in the scent of name-brand laundry detergent and expensive cotton.
This feels snuggly. He uses the towel to tug me even closer.
I clear my throat.
“Get dressed, Suburbs, and I’ll introduce ya to a friend of mine.”
The other three boys stand from their own bath, eliciting giggles and whispers from my crew.
They know not to covet what belongs to me, but it’s not like they don’t have eyes.
As long as the looking doesn’t lead to anything inappropriate, I don’t care.
Let ‘em see what a well-stocked fuckboy stable looks like.