Chapter 17
Damon
The engine of Slade and Jace’s borrowed Charger rumbles low as I cut through the city, no destination, just motion.
West End fades behind me, and I find myself on the outskirts of campus, slowing when I get to the spot Arianette spoke about–the spot right outside of her dance class, and try to envision it.
The late summer afternoon. The crowded sidewalk.
Arianette, with her hair piled up on top of her head, skin warm from dance.
One of those tight little leotards clinging to her body.
In my mind, she looks small. Young. More na?ve than she is now.
It’s before everything she went through.
The kidnapping. The time locked away. Her escape and near death.
Before everything with us.
I sit for a long minute, the car idling as I stare at the sidewalk, willing the answers to appear.
Who took Arianette?
Where did they take her?
And why? Why would they take her and the others in the first place?
There’s been no ransom. No indicators that it’s a sexual predator. No gory bloodbath like the Forsyth Carver. What’s the point? Is it all just a game?
With no answers, I shift the car into gear and peel off, tires burning on the pavement.
The fresh tattoo throbs over my eye, and the conversation with Remy rings in my head.
Maybe I’d know the answer to those questions if I hadn’t been tossed from the room.
But I’m not used to tiptoeing around people like this.
I’m a die-hard loner. Independent to my core, but he’s right.
I branded myself in the most visible place on my body.
My dick keeps getting hard over a girl who is nothing but a bundle of trauma and obligation.
Fuck. I feel like I’m going crazy.
I don’t slow down until I cross from one territory to the next. Unlike the fairytales told to us as kids, the streets of East End aren’t painted gold. Every territory has its blight. East End’s is called the Stacks.
I turn down the narrow street toward the three and four-story multi-family housing, where the people who do the grunt work in East End live stacked on top of one another.
I drive up to the two men standing at the entrance, acting as guards.
Acting, because there are no official guards here.
What’s there to protect? Third-hand couches and busted TVs?
These men are self-appointed, monitoring who comes in and out.
Keeping track of the Scratch, guns, and other Forsyth inventory running in and out of the Stacks.
I ease the car to the checkpoint and roll down the window. The guard closest to me steps forward, and his mouth quirks up when he sees me. “Kemp. Long time, buddy.”
“Titus.” I nod at him and out the window at the second guy. His name is Pike. They’re a decade older than me and have been working this spot for years, trying to pretend like they’ve got some authority. “How’s it been?”
“Good,” he straightens up, looking around the Stacks like it’s his version of the Purple Palace. “Just holding down the fort.”
I don’t miss how his eyes flick to the tattoo over my eyebrow. It’s covered in plastic to keep germs out of the fresh wound, but I can sense when he realizes what it says.
What it means.
“You here on business?” I hear the edge in his voice.
“Nah, just came down to check in.”
“Gotcha.” His shoulders relax. He steps back and pats the roof of the car. “Try the Side Pocket.”
I nod again, understanding his meaning. “Thanks.”
I roll up the window and drive the three blocks to the little business corner in the heart of the Stacks.
There are only two places open, but it’s really all people need.
Mr. Bing’s corner shop that keeps the neighborhood supplied with snacks, drinks and scratch-off tickets, and then the Side Pocket, the pool hall.
I park and step inside, hit by the fact that it smells exactly the same. Chalk dust and old beer and something scorched into the wood that never comes out. The lights still buzz overhead, yellow and tired, like they’ve been thinking about quitting for years and never quite do.
I stop just inside the door.
It takes a second. Then people start to recognize me. Not all at once. A glance. A pause. They should. I spent my childhood running through the barstools. I head for the bar. The bartender looks up, squints, then nods like a door clicking into place.
“DK,” he says, reaching over the bar to shake my hand. “How you been?”
“Good.” My voice sounds flat, even to me. “She here?”
He tips his head toward the back without asking who I mean.
I nod and move on.
The back room is louder, the tables and players huddled close together.
Pool balls crack against one another, and voices overlap while money changes hands in small, forgettable amounts.
I spot her right away, bent over the table, dark hair hanging over her shoulder, cue steady in her hands.
Tank top, jeans. Comfortable. Focused. The guy across from her already looks like he’s made peace with losing.
She takes the shot.
Clean. Ball drops. Her opponent, or more accurately, her mark, curses under their breath.
“That’s game,” she says, straightening.
Then she looks up.
Our eyes meet.
There’s surprise there–real, brief–it’s gone in a heartbeat, smoothed over by something neutral. A reminder that I exist–we exist.
She chalks her cue, already lining up for another round. “You gonna stand there all night?”
There’s no doubt she’s talking to me. I didn’t grow up calling her Mom the way other kids would have.
Seeing her now, bent over the table, it’s easy to forget she ever had a kid at all.
She was fourteen when she had me. Maybe fifteen.
Depends on which story Rikki Kemp is telling that night and who’s listening.
“I didn’t want to mess up your rhythm.”
She snorts. “Please.”
The guy she beat grumbles and digs for cash. She holds out her hand, nails sharp as claws, and accepts her winnings.
When he walks away, she stuffs the money into her bra and leans against the table, cue tucked under her arm. She looks me over then. Not like a mother. Like someone taking inventory. My clothes. My stance. The metal piercings. Finally, the fresh tat.
“New ink,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“Huh.” She doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t comment further. “I heard you’d taken up with the Crypt Keepers. What’s that like?”
She can’t be mad. She’s the one who taught me how to be like this. Flexible and adaptive. The ability to blend in while making an impression.
“It’s not bad. A bed, food, education.” I don’t mention the time spent collecting the dead, or the ceremonies, or the Baroness. “Better than the Pen.”
“Maybe you learned more from me than I realized.”
Shit. Maybe I did. “How about you? Anything new?”
“I got a job,” she says, like it just occurred to her to mention it. “Gentlemen’s Chamber.” My eyebrow lifts, and she rolls her eyes. “Behind the bar, you little brat. My days of being on stage with my tits out are long over.”
I’m not sure I want the image of my mother dancing the pole in my head, but a job’s a job. She taught me that, too.
“Tips are good,” she adds. Her attention is already drifting past me, toward the next game lining up. A guy, young enough to be my slightly older brother, waits his turn. I don’t miss how he looks at her. Christ. “It’s steady. Better than hustling down here every night.”
And that’s that. End of discussion. No big deal that she’s working under the Ashbys.
Silence settles between us. Not awkward.
Just empty. Like neither of us expects the other to do anything with it.
I realized a long time ago I couldn’t count on this woman to show up for me.
Not when I sat in the principal’s office for the first time, or stood in front of a judge.
There were no visits over the holidays when I was in lockup, or cards passed out on my birthday.
She didn’t even come to the hospital after they stitched my throat up.
I’m not even sure why I’m here other than the fact Remy got in my head–pushing me about my loyalty to the Barons and Arianette. Talking about fucked up families.
I look around. At the scratched-up tables and cracked leather booths.
I didn’t go knocking on Rikki’s apartment door because this was our real home.
The shitty pool hall where my mother could hustle up a few bucks and a warm bed for the night.
Half the time, she’d leave me here, curled up asleep in one of the corner booths, waking when she picked me up before dawn.
She fed me, dressed me in hand-me-downs, and made sure I got to school, but she didn’t know how to be a mother then, and she still doesn’t. It’s not her fault. No one taught her how to be a parent.
"You’ve always been smart, Day. I’m not surprised you’re in college, but Greek life?" she asks, questions flitting through her eyes as she racks the balls.
"I know. Didn’t seem like the thing for me either, but the Baron King felt differently."
She stiffens. "He picked you?"
"Yep."
Her hand lands on her hip. "Well, why the fuck did he do that?"
"He’s not the most transparent guy,” I admit, knowing I can’t tell her about death and tradition, “but it’s pretty clear that he had a reason. I know he’s trying to figure out who’s taking these chicks off the street and hurting them."
"Like the one he married?"
She keeps up with Royal gossip more than I realized. "Yep, like that."
"And you think you can help?" she asks, leaning on the table.
"Maybe," I shrug, still working to find my place. It’s not why I came down here, but I may as well ask. "Have you heard anything? Any rumors?”