Chapter 14
“KILLER QUEEN” BY MAD TSAI
My leg shook under the desk as I watched the end of my blunt burn.
It was such a waste, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.
I was in one of the old desks they threw under the bleachers last year, avoiding classes again.
I couldn’t sit still and listen to the teacher even if I wanted to, not after what had happened last night.
I feared a cop would walk in and announce my arrest like an episode of Pretty Little Liars.
They’d laugh, dragging me out by the same arms that wouldn’t hold my daughter a moment more.
I’d been sick all fucking day. The image of his blue eyes staring at me reminded me too much of Olivia. Her eyes were such an impressive blue color. It was no wonder everyone in the Spirit Hunters drooled over her the second she joined.
The weed wasn’t helping. Instead of numbing everything like it once had, it was just an addiction that left me trembling in this metal desk.
I was deeper in my thoughts than I wanted to admit.
No matter where I tried to focus, all I could feel were my feet sinking into the mud as I dug Jamison’s grave.
I put him near Leo, another boy I knew died too early.
I still wasn’t sure if that was my father or a freak accident.
Jamison’s mother’s name was Violet. His last name was Smith-Reid. He wanted to play at LSU and his favorite color was green. He liked the evergreen shades because it reminded him of his girlfriend, Magnolia Waterhouse.
I stalked the dead boy’s Instagram. I considered it part of my punishment.
I turned my attention back to the phone sitting in front of me. I’d lost focus on Jamison and drifted to another account.
It was fake as hell. For starters, I hadn’t seen Quinntessa take one damn picture of the sunset, yet she had over fifty pictures on this account that all revolved around sunsets with flowery captions.
She had over a thousand followers, no tagged photos, and only one hundred posts in total.
For a normal Instagram user, this might seem like nothing.
However, for those who lived far under the law most of their life, inactive accounts that continued to grow a following carried huge red flags.
Still, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the very real photo Quinntessa Dawson had as her profile picture.
Seventeen. Dog Mom. Cow Lover. Bibliophile.
I Googled that last one. She collected books or something. I knew she was an active reader, but using words like that made me feel like her father made the account or Quinntessa was much deeper into the world of the book nerds than I originally thought.
There was this one picture I screenshotted.
It was typical of me to be weird online.
I didn’t like much social media besides Tumblr.
Everything was allowed there, and I could escape into another world without being found.
I wondered if she had one. That would give me a better idea on who she really was.
In this photo, Quinntessa was in her football gear for another team—the blue and white Titans.
It was a professional photo of her on a field.
She was holding her hand out in a partial squat, her eyes focused on something out of frame.
It was intense, something so unreal, it made my core clench at the sight, my stomach balling with warmth.
On Satan’s doorstep, I wanted to be on the other end of that stare.
Those dark eyes bore through the face cage of her helmet.
My stomach was in knots seeing her face scrunched in this adorably hot, growly glare.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she acted like a nippy puppy on that field.
She clenched down tight on her hot pink mouth guard. Her nose wrinkled and lip curled.
And fucking hell, her ass was amazing. It always looked so nice in her uniform. I was becoming envious of the hold those pants always had on her backside.
“Funny seeing you here.”
I rolled my eyes up to find Duke Harvestman leaning against one of the metal bars under the bleachers. His messy hair was cut into that disgusting mullet mohawk. He really thought he was all that, leaning against the pole like a fuck boy to talk to me.
“You mean at my school? Where I am every day during the week?” I asked, locking my phone and leaning back into the metal chair.
“Under the bleachers.” Duke glanced around before sliding forward and plopping down on one of the old football dummies. “Didn’t we first meet under here? You and me. Me and you.”
I spewed out a laugh. I took a long drag of my blunt and struggled to keep it in my lungs. I hollered again, smoke expelling from my mouth and nose.
“You’re such a prick, Daniel.” I tapped my dark nails on the desk directly above my cellphone.
“Oh, come on, Q. I’m being a friend.” Duke brushed off his jeans and shrugged. “I’m trying to be nice here. We haven’t exactly talked since?—”
“Since I practically gave birth in the back of Erica’s car?
” I asked, cocking my head to glare deep into Duke’s brown eyes.
His eyes were nothing compared to the photo of Quinntessa I had just examined.
“How about when Estelle got sick before my parents let me go home? Olivia helped me. D’arcy helped me.
Briar dropped everything to stay with me at the hospital. Where were you, friend?”
“I told you, I . . .” Duke watched his shoes for a moment before pushing himself to stand and shaking his head. “Quinn, I told you I couldn’t afford to take care of her. I can’t keep her, and you had her with me, anyway. I told you rehoming her was for the best.”
“She’s not a pet.” I stood from the desk and flicked my roach in a random direction. I didn’t even care if it set this place ablaze. “So don’t fucking talk about my daughter like she was even a choice. She is my life.”
“You’re right.” Duke blinked frantically and avoided my gaze.
He rubbed his face and turned back to me, opening and closing his mouth before his shoulders dropped.
“Quinn, I can’t help you with her. She is your life, and I can’t make her mine.
I have enough shit going on. I wore a condom. I did my part.”
“You did your part?” My eyes widened in disbelief. “Holy shit. You are a great guy. I cannot believe Erica dumped your ass.”
“I didn’t come here to talk about this!” Duke snapped; his cheeks blazed red with frustration.
He had a short fuse. I had a short fuse. Estelle was fucked.
I used to like that about him, the way he wouldn’t take shit and always pushed Christian to pull up his pants and be a man.
It wasn’t until I had Estelle and realized how much Duke’s toxic masculinity reminded me of my father that he made me vomit.
I remembered sitting on the rooftop hating him the entire pregnancy.
My parents—my father—kicked me out when he learned I had ruined his plans for the Rome family by betraying Christian’s trust. I wasn’t even thinking about him and what he wanted from me then. All I wanted was for Christian to know what it felt like to be cheated on. I never planned to get pregnant.
From there, I fell from the high pedestal I comfortably sat on at the top of Styxton High School’s social pyramid.
After I left the dark teachings of our church, tried to rid myself of the Ghouls, and watched my grades plummet, I knew there was worse to worry about than being disowned.
If not for the Ghouls refusing to let me go, I would have ended up some blood stain on the cement.
Sometimes, I sat in the back of the stadium and observed the far drop.
It happened too many times for Duke to stand there and give me some half-assed excuse.
At the end of the day, I had to explain to Estelle why she didn’t have a father.
When she was old enough and wanted to attend the daddy-daughter events like normal kids in elementary, what the fuck was I going to do?
Nothing. You know why? Because between Olivia and Erica, one of them would put on some pants and go with her. Estelle was already dripping with Erica’s accent from being around her so much.
A soft pain in my chest reminded me how much time she would have to spend with someone to avoid picking up the Russian accent my family had and instead adopt a more Spanish tongue.
I caused that. I handed her over to someone who could raise her better.
Erica did everything right, yet I stuck her with a kid.
“Truth is, I need some drugs, and you’re the only person I know who can get them for me quick.”
“Come again?” I squinted, my thoughts thrown back to the pea brained boy in front of me. “You want me to . . .give you drugs? Like Viagra for the next girl you want to fail screwing? Or are you finally going to try anal?”
“No!” Duke scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I never have an issue getting it up.” He ruffled his hair as his cheeks burned with embarrassment. “And I would never let a girl peg me.”
“You did when we?—”
“We were drunk. That’s different.”
“I remember that night preeetty differently.” I pursed my lips.
He knew I wasn’t lying. I wouldn’t ever use what he said that night against him.
Though, when it came to Estelle, I had no issue with dangling it over his head.
It was my own ticking bomb. “Something about how you wanted to know what’s good about me. ”
“I didn’t.”
“Because that would explain why Chris preferred me over?—”
“We were drunk!” Duke shouted, his hand slamming against the mental bar beside him. “I need you to get back into playing plug for five fucking seconds and help me out here. Your dad’s the fucking capo or whatever. Everyone knows that!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I raised my brows and watch as his anger simmers. “I’m Russian, by the way. Not Italian.”
“I don’t care.” Duke threw up his hands. “Whatever gets me what I need faster.”
“Why do you even need drugs? What high are you chasing?”
“I need?—”
“And I’m on probation,” I reminded him.