Heavenleigh (Rockers’ Legacy #10)

1. Heavenleigh

Heavenleigh

Out of breath, I stepped onto the plane.

I’d had to run from the drop-off entrance to my gate on the other side of the airport.

Through a group of drunken men who were coming out of one of the bars, around a gaggle of older women who might actually have been more drunk—drunker?

—from how they all kept cackling and wolf-whistling at the men.

With only about ten seconds to assess the scene, I wasn’t completely sure, but the thought had made me laugh even as I was breaking a sweat.

Yara had called me at two o’clock that afternoon, half sobbing, and it took me at least a full minute before my brain realized she was happy…mostly.

“I’m getting married!” she’d screamed after a rapid explanation that I hadn’t fully heard because I was still stuck on why my college bestie was sobbing.

In that time, I’d already made three lists of how to dispose of whoever’s body needed to be hidden, which had naturally preceded the list of how to kill said whoever responsible for making Yara cry to begin with.

In all honesty, I didn’t actually know what to do with a dead body, but I knew people who would. One of them was my brother-in-law, and he’d learned years ago that asking questions was the wrong way to handle any situation that involved a Stevenson sister.

Yara had finally started making sense, and I’d back-burnered the lists. “I know you’re getting married, Yara.” I paused and jumped straight into worst-case scenarios. “Wait, are you okay? Did you hit your head, and now you have amnesia and only just remembered you have a fiancé?”

There was a long pause, which only fueled my overactive imagination, before she laughed so hard she snorted. “This is why I adore you, Heav. No, babe. I do not have a brain injury, nor did I forget about Warren. Although I kind of wish I could erase the last few months from my mind.”

Her voice was full of exhaustion. She’d been on top of the world when her boyfriend had finally proposed to her at a New Year’s Eve party.

Yara had picked a West Coast school for college, because at the time, she was running from her own feelings for Warren, her much older brother’s best friend.

They had a big age gap between them, but according to Yara, they were meant to be.

Their two families had always planned for Yara to marry Warren, and if that didn’t go as planned, then Warren’s sister would be the next option to blend the dynasties.

Yara couldn’t be blamed for feeling trapped.

She was so freaking in love with Warren she’d pined for him every day of term, even when she seemed to be having the time of her life.

All because she didn’t think Warren actually cared about her.

It was all about their families’ expectations—he didn’t love her, and that was the only thing she truly wanted.

Eventually, Warren pulled his head out of his ass and showed Yara it was her he wanted. I knew he loved her and told my bestie she was going to be just fine. When a man looked at a woman the way Warren looked at Yara, they would give up anything for something as small as a smile from her.

Which, from what Yara had shared with me, Warren had done. Whatever contracts had been signed to blend the two families in business or whatever it was—since Yara had been purposely vague about it—Warren had made sure that their marriage wasn’t a part of it.

Whether that meant that Warren’s sister was still obligated to marry one of Yara’s brothers, I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t care enough to ask.

It wasn’t any of my business. Yara had her family secrets, and I had plenty of my own.

She knew the basics about my family, and me hers, but we’d treated college like a clean slate.

We were friends because we genuinely liked each other, not because of our social status and the zeros in our bank accounts.

Yara had texted me a picture of her and Warren, flashing the huge diamond just minutes after his proposal.

Her social media had been overrun with wedding inspirations from January first. Each time she called, her voice was a little less excited, as if all her dreams of what her wedding would one day look like were vanishing a bit more each week.

“I mean, I’m getting married. This weekend. No more arguing with both our moms over seating charts and color palettes, or how Paris would be better than Italy for a honeymoon. It’s not their honeymoon. Why do they care so much, huh? No more compromising. No more—”

“Yara, babe, you’re spiraling,” I interrupted when her voice started to get higher and higher.

“Right. Sorry.” She took a deep breath, then screamed again. “I’m getting married!”

Holding the phone away from my ear, I laughed. After months of planning and being emotionally worn down and manipulated by everyone else’s expectations of what their wedding should look like, Yara and Warren had decided to elope. Kinda.

If the definition of elopement was a destination wedding with only the most important best friends in attendance.

I was the maid of honor and her only friend who’d never once had an opinion on something involving the big day.

I’d been to more than my fair share of weddings, my older two sisters included, and I’d quickly learned that unless the bride specifically asked for your advice, do not—even under threat of death—open your mouth.

Planning the event was not fun or magical, in my opinion.

More like it was ulcer-inducing and required either high doses of antianxiety meds or lengthy psychological therapy to recover from.

Either way, I’d never been to a wedding that didn’t include someone in need of medical intervention at some stage of the planning phase.

Even from a distance, I could see that Yara wasn’t going to be the exception.

The only problem was getting to the destination in time.

I’d lucked out and got the last seat on a flight to Hawaii.

It was the worst possible seat, but at least I was able to book it.

Because the only other choice had been one the night before the wedding, and I wasn’t about to chance the universe laughing at me and delaying the flight. I would not let Yara down.

With only enough time to throw a few things into my beat-up old backpack, I’d run out of my apartment without showering or changing.

Truly, I was surprised I had shoes on. As a last-ditch option, I could have asked one of my sisters if I could use her jet, but that would require telling them I was traveling.

Nevaeh’s was more a company jet, though, and Arella would ask way too many questions that included backstories and commentary from her annoying husband.

Which would normally be fine, except I knew they would then blab to our parents, and that would only cause our dad to worry.

He was already anxious because Arella was on location filming her latest movie. I would not add to that. If I played my cards right, no one would ever know I was gone.

So, out of breath, drenched in sweat and covered in paint from my newest project, I sank into my seat.

For Yara, the girl who once drank her weight in margaritas and convinced me that dancing in our underwear in the fountain on the front quad was ritualistic.

I was completely sober and lived by the rule that life was meant to be lived—my low impulse control at its finest. We rebranded YOLO that night, running from campus police in mismatched bras and panties.

That neon-pink bra had been ultra comfy but the worst possible choice for committing almost-naked crimes.

Damn, I miss that bra.

For the girl who’d once put hot sauce in our suitemate’s contact solution for saying something epically mean that had almost made me cry.

I was not a crier. Yara had a very keen sense of justice that I was equal parts enthralled by and terrified of.

The things she did with hot sauce were definitely cruel and unusual punishment.

Literal torture. Maybe even a war crime in certain countries.

For the only person outside my family I would kill for, because she had shown me over and over what ride or die looked like.

Nothing was going to stop me from being there for Yara.