Chapter 11 Jagger
JAGGER
Ican still see it. The mark. Hell, I don’t even need to close my eyes.
It’s right there. The muddled black and purple surrounded by a mottled pink.
The way it peeked beneath her crop top, tainting her naturally pale skin and making me see red.
She couldn’t have fallen. Bumped into something—been shoved into something—sure.
But a fall? That’s the bullshit excuse she gives me?
My nostrils flare as I dribble the ball across the court and lay it up. After ricocheting off the backboard, it falls into the hoop with ease. I’m too distracted to enjoy the easy two points. Not that we’re keeping score. “You find anything out?” I ask.
After my Little Thief showed up at the party, demanding we give her back the money her dad gave us, I had the guys do some digging.
Despite what we told her, people aren’t usually stupid enough to go head-to-head with any of us about a lost bet.
They know it’s a bad idea and can get them banned from any other future wagers or parties in general.
But Violet? The girl was so desperate for the money, I could almost taste it.
Seeing the bruise earlier today, I finally understand why.
She was going to use the money to get away from her dad. Now, it isn’t even an option.
Hawke rebounds the ball, then tosses it back to me. “She keeps a low profile. Only has one friend. The same one we saw at the fight,” he clarifies, “and there’s not a chance in Hell that girl will tell me anything even if I could talk to her without pissing off her brother.”
So, nothing. He found nothing.
Chucking the basketball into my best friend’s waiting hands, I demand, “You?”
The ball connects with Roman’s palms, then rolls off his fingers in an instant, arching through the air and falling into the basket. As the net swooshes back and forth, Roman answers, “Rumor has it, there was yelling at her place the morning of, but no one saw anything.”
My molars grind, but I stay quiet as Hawke retrieves the ball and tosses it to Ford while the sun slips beneath the horizon. Ford pulls up for a shot, and the ball goes in. “Hell, yeah. Nothing but net.”
Standing beneath the basket, Roman rebounds the ball, passing it to Hawke on the opposite side of the court.
“We don’t need an eye witness to piece together what happened,” Roman points out.
“Like you said, she didn’t have the bruise until after the fight, and there was screaming at her place before you saw it after class. ”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Ford interjects. “Stop thinking with your dick, and do the math. It was obviously the dad.”
“Just because he doesn’t have a heart doesn’t mean he’s thinking with his dick,” Hawke points out.
Ignoring them, I shoot my glare at Roman. “You told me he doesn’t hit her.”
“I told you he’s a lazy drunk with a gambling problem and anger issues,” Roman counters. “Never said he doesn’t hit her. Only said no one’s seen her walking around with any of the usual signs.”
“Until today,” I grit out. “So this could be the norm.”
“Or it could be a one-off,” Ford offers.
“Or it could be the norm,” I repeat.
“It does make sense, though,” Roman adds. “Why she was talking to someone from the school about alternative housing, even if it was out of her budget and would take her further from her friend.”
I nod, making a mental note of it all while coming up with a game plan. One I plan to keep to myself. “What about the friend?” I ask. “They seemed close at the fight. What’d you find out?”
Hawke shares a look with Roman, then mutters, “Name’s Lexie. Lexie Morgan. Little sister to Ethan Morgan, who almost blinded you over last weekend.”
“I’m aware,” I grunt.
“What you’re not aware of,” Roman continues, “is that Ethan and Lexie have an uncle. Gus.”
The name hits its mark, and I pull back, shocked as hell.
“Yeah,” Hawke mutters. “The Gus.”
“Well, shit.” Ford laughs. “Talk about a small world, am I right?”
The rest of us stay quiet, digesting the severity of the situation and what it could mean if we don’t play our cards right.
“So, what does this mean?” Ford continues. “The douche bag shows up out of nowhere, kicks Jagger’s ass—”
“Cheats,” Roman interjects. “He wouldn’t have won if he hadn’t almost taken out your brother’s eye—”
“Semantics,” Ford argues. “He still walked away with our money, which means Gus’s family walked away with a shit-ton more than we initially agreed to when we approached him about hosting our…extracurricular activities in The Drift.”
Ford’s right. We had an agreement with Gus. Allow us in The Drift without any trouble, and we give him a cut of the earnings. Why change shit now?
Our game forgotten, I pace the empty court. Why would Gus’s nephew pop up out of nowhere? It makes no sense. “Has Gus said anything?” I ask Roman.
“I haven’t heard anything.”
“You?” I prod, turning to Hawke.
“Nothing.”
“What else have you heard about Ethan and Lexie?” I demand.
“Ethan did a few years in prison for armed robbery,” Roman explains. “Got out a month ago. Is staying with his little sister. No idea for how long.”
“Lexie works for her uncle at The Body Shop,” Hawke continues. “Makes good money. Likes to flirt but distances herself from the actual clientele. No idea if she knows what her uncle’s really into. If she does, she’s a great actress.”
“Good to know,” I mutter.
“We told Gus we wouldn’t stick our nose in Drifter shit,” Roman reminds me. “And even though your girl isn’t technically related, I think we’re walking a tightrope here.”
He’s right. Dammit, he’s right. I scrub my hand over my face, attempting to erase the bruise from memory, but it doesn’t do shit.
“You know we’ve got your back,” Hawke adds. “Whatever you want us to do, we got you, even if it stirs up shit.”
I know he does. I know they all do. Guess it’s one of the few perks of having an asshole for a father.
It really breeds camaraderie around the troops.
It also means I’m not the only one this affects.
If she wasn’t friends with someone who has connections worth steering clear of, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
I’d intervene and help her out. It’s not like they’d care or likely even notice at all.
The problem is, Violet’s affinity for blending in has only counted when it comes to the Harden side of town.
When it comes to The Drift? And her affiliations?
I’m not sure where she stands. So where the hell does it leave me? And her?
If she wasn’t so damn stubborn, I could maybe give her the money back, but all it takes is one person. One person who finds out we have a soft spot for sob stories, and our entire operation goes up in flames. The familiar thought flickers through me, frustrating me even more than before.
“She’s no one,” I mutter, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. I raise my hands to Hawke. “Ball.”
Exchanging another look with Ford and Roman, Hawke passes it to me, and I pull up, letting the ball roll off my fingers. When it bounces off the rim and ricochets across the court, Ford chases after it.
“Any update on Titas?” I ask, referring to our father.
“You mean, other than his insistence on a family dinner?” Ford scoffs as he jogs back with the ball in his hands, slightly out of breath. “Nothing yet. Hawke?”
Hawke shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“No more pop-ins with Judge?” Roman prods.
We take turns shaking our heads. It isn’t exactly surprising.
Judge is about as enthused in the current shit storm he’s in as we are.
Pretty sure he’s tired of trying to catch us with our pants down and is spending his time writing a new album in hopes of his older brother changing his mind and letting him off the hook, but what do I know?
Besides, it doesn’t matter. He can waste as much time as he wants trying to shut down our less-than-savory activities, but it won’t do shit.
Our father has already cut us off financially.
What other punishment can he dole out? It’s not like he’d kick us out of Harden Estate.
A move like that would be too public. And he’s nothing if not a fan of keeping the Harden name as squeaky clean as possible.
“Give me a minute,” I mutter. “I need to make a call.” My Nikes scuff against the black pavement as I jog toward the corner of the court, dialing the dean. The phone rings before the familiar click of the call connecting takes over.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Dean Winters,” I return. “This is Jagger. Jagger Harden.”
“J-Jagger?” the dean repeats. “Oh, uh. Hello. How’s your father?”
“Father’s doing well. Busy, as I’m sure you can imagine,” I add.
“Yes, of course. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“I need you to give me the direct number to whoever handles housing on campus.”
“Housing?” The bastard hesitates but is smart enough not to ask any follow-up questions. “Yes, of course. Uh, I’ll have my assistant send it to you tomorrow morning.”
“I’m going to need the information within the next fifteen minutes.”
“Oh. Uh, right. Yes, of course. She’ll send it within the next fifteen minutes.”
My mouth lifts. “Have a good night, Dean.”
“You, too.”