Chapter 1
ONE
THREE YEARS LATER
The very last place on Earth that I want to be, during the height of summer in California, is packed into a courtroom with dozens of other teenagers and their handlers.
There’s no central air conditioning, because why would there be in a place like this?
And instead, we’re all being held at the mercy of the two wall units rattling away.
The knocking sound is loud enough to cover the constant drip of water leaking from the side of one of them.
The barely functioning units caught my attention while I was scoping the place out and I had hoped, by some miracle, that the wardens had dragged some portable units in here to replace them, but of course they haven't.
I don’t know why I was surprised because no one gives a shit about anyone in the Bay. Not kids, not women, not even their own families, so a room full of juvenile delinquents being sentenced for the crimes of desperation, hunger, and hopelessness?
Not a chance.
Within the first hour, the entire place reeks of sweaty teenage boys who don’t shower right, and it’s hard to keep the disgust from my face when the guy next to me leans down to fix his sneakers, hitting me with another wave of that odor.
God, if only he knew who he's sitting next to and how hard it is to hold myself in check right now.
He’d probably pass the hell out.
To distract myself, I survey the room again, watching as the last case is wrapped up and three bailiffs drag the gangster out of the room.
Fighting and struggling against them, he cusses them until his protests eventually fade.
The Bear’s insignia is tattooed over his throat, like a badge of pride for everyone to see, but I wonder how proud he’ll be when he’s ridden out his ten-year sentence.
Who am I kidding? He’s not going to make it out, not with that mouth of his.
This particular district in Mounts Bay is small enough that court proceedings for minors are only held twice a week; it’s one of the reasons why I chose to file my petition here.
They used to close the courtroom for violent crimes, to separate them from the custody hearings and other non-violent charges, but violent crimes now massively outnumber the other cases, so the judge just tries to get the worst of them out of the room before they can riot in the holding cells.
It still happens more often than not.
Glancing down at the clock on my phone, I sigh hard at all the time that’s just ticking away while I’m trapped here. My case was supposed to start half an hour ago, but the last guy argued belligerently with the judge and took up more than three times his allocated slot.
What a dick.
The next guy is called up, and the moment my eyes land on him, my breath catches in my chest and my gaze drops to my feet like I’ve been burned.
My cheeks heat, but not out of shame, and it takes me a second to realize I’m blushing over the guy’s looks, something I very literally have never done before.
Not for some guy… or girl. Or anyone, for any reason relating to how they look.
I’m not built like that, never have been, and I’ve barely even registered whether someone is attractive in the past.
So, what the hell is this reaction, and who the hell is this guy?
It takes me three tries to get another decent look at him, and there’s no denying he’s gorgeous.
Like, jaw-dropping, brain-melting, dumbfoundingly stunning, but that’s not the only thing setting him apart from every other Mounty in the room.
He looks as though he has never done a hard day’s work in his life, never missed a meal, or been slapped around by someone who should have loved him.
His skin is clear of scars, his sandy hair is messed artfully, as though he has the luxury of being able to take his time with stuff like that, and his nose is straight and unmarred.
The tattoo tucked under his jaw is the only suggestion that he’s not a pampered model.
Since it takes me a solid minute of glancing between him and my own feet, there’s no point trying to deny it; the boy on the stand is so gorgeous that it’s impossible to look directly at his face.
I give up trying and look at his hands as they clench tightly where they rest on his lap instead.
There are dozens of other teenagers in the room, attractive ones among them, I’m sure, but I can’t look away from this one for long before I'm drawn back to him like a moth to a stunning flame.
He has broad shoulders and big arms, like he works out more than regularly.
His hands are big and strong. I like the look of those hands.
The more I stare at them, the more I imagine what they would feel like on my skin.
I imagine them stroking over my arms, my neck, cupping my face and pulling me in against his chest, tilting my head back.
Wait a minute.
What?!
The blush on my cheeks deepens only, this time, it’s definitely shame because what the hell am I thinking right now? Who the hell is this guy? How has the mere sight of him turned me into a babbling mess?
When the judge read out his case number to call him up, I missed his name, but I did catch that he’s my age, and no boy of seventeen gets ink like his unless they're already out on the streets. His rap sheet proves I’m right on the money, but while it isn’t great, it also isn’t violent, which makes me feel slightly better about having ogled him.
Car theft. Breaking and entering. Violating a work order.
Clearly, it isn’t his first time in this building. I glance up at him again because I can’t help myself, and I can see how bored and unaffected his eyes are, like this is all such an inconvenience to him and a waste of his time. I want to roll my eyes, but once again, I’m transfixed.
As the trial drags on, I manage to make out the tattoo.
The words ‘Honor before Blood’ are tucked under his chin, the black ink stark against his pale skin.
There are countless gangs in the Bay, each with a creed or an emblem to distinguish them from the rest, and my internal catalog of them is just as extensive.
I’ve never seen that one before.
It makes me pick over his appearance a little closer, searching for some other clue on where this guy has come from and who he owes his loyalties to, but he doesn’t have any other visible tattoos.
His clothes aren’t flashy or name brand, but they’re also not color-coded or patched either, so no help there.
It’s only when I spot the Rolex on his wrist that I realize he has to be a drug dealer.
The feeling snuffs out instantly, like a cold bucket of ice has been thrown over my lustful body.
Drug dealers are scum, and I don’t want to admire him anymore.
I’m doing everything in my power to get away from drugs and the people that peddle them so it doesn’t matter how drawn I feel to this guy, I can resist the pull of his stunning looks.
Shifting in my seat, I get back to surveilling the room as if I never spotted him in the first place.
The courthouse is a converted historic building, built back in the Prohibition era, and not a huge amount has changed about it in the decades since.
I know an awful lot about it, and countless other topics that would seem useless to anyone else, but I never let social norms stop me from my frequent research binges.
The knowledge base I’ve built and constantly add to isn’t just my ticket out of this hellhole, it’s how I’ve survived it in the first place.
I might not know how the information will save my ass, but the number of times some tiny tidbit of trivia has been the difference between a cold grave or waking up the next morning…
well, let’s just say I have zero shame about this habit of mine.
It means that while the rest of the room is probably zoning out the droning of the lawyers, the only thing on my mind is the floor plan.
There are a warren of secret hallways and enclosed staircases hiding in the thick stone walls.
I’ve walked through them before, was paid a pretty penny to recover some information for a big trial being held here.
I know exactly which entries and exits are boarded up and which staircase is a death-trap thanks to termite damage.
I checked them all out again last night, just to be certain nothing had changed.
If things head south here today, like the pit in my stomach keeps saying it will, my exit strategy is mapped out and flawless.
God, I don’t think I’ve walked into a room without one since I hit puberty.
I don’t think I’ll kick the habit, either, even once I do get out.
For years, I thought that was just a part of being a born-and-bred Mounty from the Bay, of growing up in the slums, but it only takes a glance around this place to understand that I might be the odd one out.
The population of this city is crumbling as fast as the building is, only it’s drugs and desperation taking them out, not just the vestiges of time.
Seventeen years under my belt, but I’m already so fucking exhausted by this shit.
“You ready, kid?”
Startling out of my thoughts, I cut a severe look at my social worker, but it doesn’t land the way it should with the silly woman.
There’s a reason I chose Margot to take my case on.
She’s not just green, she’s completely oblivious to the way this city works, and while that means her days are numbered, it also makes her the safest option for me.
If she were approached by someone to sabotage my case, she wouldn’t know enough to be bought.
She’d be killed, for sure, but I’d only have to find another social worker, not start my case all over again.
It wouldn’t be the first time.