Chapter 22
“Why are you looking at the door like that?” It’s odd to see him so frozen. Emotionless, even. Not that he shows what he’s thinking very often. But Oliver? He ruffled Malic’s feathers.
And no one ever does that.
Not me. Huxley. Macklyn. Or even that fuck JJ.
Malic only responds to our boss and his demands.
He is extremely loyal like that. For good reason, I guess.
The man basically pulled him from a cage and gave him purpose again.
Instead of being stuck in a small hotel room, watching what he had to watch.
I shudder at the thought of it all. My stomach tightens.
We all go through shit, I guess. Some more than others.
What you do with that shit matters, though.
Mal and I work for the big boss, recruiting new members to our cause.
Slowly but surely, we’re taking this city back from its evil overlord.
Nathanial Franco. Who has overstayed his welcome by at least thirty years.
I don’t know who died and gave him the crown, but we’re going to snatch it off his head and wear it ourselves.
“Mal,” I say, snapping my fingers in front of his face.
Nope. Nothing. Not an ounce of recognition.
Wonderful. I sigh. See? Mal doesn’t respond to me, either.
And I’m his goddamn keeper. At least that’s what he says.
I’m more the watchful eye that keeps him out of major situations.
Like murder or assault charges. No biggie.
Although, our boss could snap his fingers and free us from anything. I try not to let it escalate to that.
Malic won’t take his darkening eyes off the double doors leading out of the locker room.
I’d never tell those assholes that they built something pretty cool here.
Especially in this fucking town. This fighting arena with booze and plenty of money coming in from our peers, fuels us to live another miserable day.
It serves its purpose. This neutral place is where we go when we want to beat the shit out of other people, make some money, or maybe make some connections.
Malic’s eyes narrow, and he purses his lips. Fuck. He’s deep in thought about something. Which is never fucking good. It means he’s plotting. It could be a death, a fight, or fucking someone.
It’s frightening.
And I don’t get scared easily.
Mal finally peels his eyes away from the door with a frown, shaking his head.
“No reason,” he finally states, answering my question from five minutes ago, while humming a song under his breath as he undresses, leaving him in only a pair of gym shorts.
Ready for the fight ahead. Tonight, the status of our frat balances on the edge.
If we win—everyone will flock to us. If we lose—everyone will run to Hux and his crew of idiots like they always do.
Fuck. We have to win this.
I blink several times. Just like that, he’s snapped out of whatever had him captive and moves around like his normal self.
I don’t believe him for a fucking second.
It’s nothing? There’s something there. And it all has to do with the new guy who knocked out fucking Brutus.
Idiot. Now, that motherfucker is going to be gunning for the scrawny kid.
Probably snap him in two when he least suspects it.
Great. Another murder on campus. At least this time, we’ll know who the culprit is.
The question still stands, though. Who is Oliver Davenport?
Where the fuck did he come from? Transfers so late in one’s college career don't usually happen. Especially here at Greenwood U. There’s still that nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach from when we first met.
He’s cagey, at best. Avoiding eye contact and tensing his muscles.
Underneath his loose clothes and soft skin, he’s hiding something big.
Maybe that’s why Mal was staring after him. The man’s a human lie detector. Well, sometimes. He can sniff out a lie in a matter of seconds. Shit. I’m going to have to keep my eyes on him for a whole new reason so he doesn’t squish Oliver before we can get some answers from him.
Malic freezes again. His eyes wandering back to the damn doors. Something sparks in his eyes, and my stomach drops. Fuck! I know that face. That’s the face of determination and wanting. Shit. Is that desire?
He wants this bastard in our club.
“You want him in?” Just call me the Malic-whisperer. Sometimes I feel like I know him better than I know myself.
“In?” he hums again, rubbing at his chin. “Something like that. Seems we might need to recruit the kid?” A bone-chilling smile crosses his lips, sending goosebumps down my flesh. “Yeah. Yeah. That’s what we need to do, Old Chap! Recruit that guy.” The way he emphasizes guy has me rearing back.
Listen, I don’t judge others' preferences. Unless they’re a disgusting pedo, then off with their fucking heads and light them on fire.
But Mal? He’s never shown interest in anyone sexually.
Not an ounce. Until that chick at the bar.
And now, this guy? Did he suddenly awaken his dick and now it stands for everyone?
I’m going to have to watch him closely, so he doesn’t get himself into any trouble. Or his dick.
Ugh.
Sometimes being a keeper is harder than it sounds.
“Recruit?” I ask, fiddling with the cigarette behind my ear. “You want him in, then?” Honestly, it’s something I already offered the guy.
“Keep an eye on him, Keeper. He’ll be important in the future.” He squares his shoulders, showing off his mass of muscles. The tattoos are etched on every inch of his flesh and flex under the glow of the fluorescent lights hanging above us.
Fuck.
“I’m not your keeper,” I groan when Malic simply grins at me again.
“Don’t deny your label, Wilder.” He slaps my shoulder a few times, knocking me forward.
“And get your head in the game. You’ve got a brother to decimate.
A little blood to spill. Can you taste it?
It’s in the air!” He leans in, putting his forehead against mine with ragged breaths. “Victory is ours, Old Chap.”
Mal steps back with that familiar grin plastered on his face. Whatever mood he was in before has slipped away and transformed him back into himself.
I crack my knuckles. I’m still in disbelief that my brother agreed to this. A fight? Really? He’s not so much as looked at me since he was carted away into foster care and left me behind to pick up the pieces.
“Speaking of...” I trail off, dragging my phone out of my pocket.
“Bobby texted. He’s got something for us to look at.
” I quickly show Malic the text message, and his expression drops.
It’s been over a week since Meredith disappeared.
No word. No sightings. I’m beginning to think the fucking worst about the situation.
Not only for her, but Mal, too. He’s circling the damn drain with his sanity creeping in and out.
He can only distract himself for so long before he snaps.
“When?” His shoulders square, and all humor drops from his expression.
“Monday. Nine PM at the casino.” I lift a brow; he knows what’s coming next: Bobby’s payment. He doesn’t do shit for free, and he knows exactly who we work for because he associates with the same man.
Mal cracks his neck a few times and then nods. “You think...” Mal isn’t one to get emotional. He lashes out in anger, mostly. Punching things he shouldn’t be punching. But that’s why we’re here: to alleviate the pain of losing his sister. The only blood relative he was able to track down.
“He’ll have something for us. If he didn’t have something, he wouldn’t have texted and told us to come by. “
Mal nods a few times. “He better. She can’t just...disappear.”
“No, she can’t. There has to be some sort of trace of her. Somewhere. Even if she ran away. Cameras are everywhere.”
I firmly believe that. Cameras are on every corner in this town, detecting the activities of its citizens.
If it’s not Franco—the man who thinks he’s in charge—or our boss, then it’s the police attempting to catch us.
Although, in the venture, I don’t think they’re very fucking helpful.
She’s an adult in her early thirties. She’s allowed to leave town.
Yeah? What about her apartment? Why is nothing missing?
Even her purse, keys, and phone were left behind.
She didn’t just walk out of her apartment door and decide it was all too much.
She was a nurse, for fuck’s sake. She had a stable job.
Unlike us. We’re the ones who should want to disappear.
Working under a man who remains in the damn shadows and depends on us and his other men to get shit done.
To keep Mal grounded, I tiptoe around him on the subject of Meredith.
I don’t want to confirm his worst fears by telling him mine.
He’s already too much in his head about it.
Stalking the damn bar she was last seen at and trying to intimidate everyone in sight to give him the answers they don’t have.
I’m losing faith we’ll find Meredith alive.
Fuck.
My eyes swing to the double doors when Hux and Mack come through.
Mack looks absolutely pleased with himself, and I roll my eyes.
Spoiled ass, little fucker. He’s never known the struggle.
Ever. Mom lost him when he was ten and I was eleven.
But me? Oh, I had to stay. All because the little prick opened his mouth about our living conditions to Franco.
And of course, wanting to look like a knight in shining armor, Franco had the state take care of it and transfer Mack’s care to him.
We both grew up under the same roof for many years, yet the state took him while I was left to rot with the woman who couldn’t even make dinner without assistance.
She’s always too doped up to fucking care about us.
Me, mostly. So, why do I continue to support her? Or care?