Chapter 1 #2
Blinking down at me, Margot’s eyes are still billboards showing her every thought, and it’s clear she thinks I’m fragile.
Even if I wanted to cut her a break, I don’t think she’d ever believe that I’m easily the strongest person in this room.
You don’t survive what I have without becoming bulletproof.
I have five pins holding one of my legs together to prove it.
I’m the Wolf of Mounts Bay, and I can survive anything.
The unbearably hot guy steps down from the stand, and it’s my turn.
As he walks down the stairs, we cross paths.
I force myself to look up at him. His face is a mask of disinterest and apathy, but my breath catches in my throat when I see his eyes.
The icy blue depths pull me in, and I feel like I’m drowning.
He’s angry. He’s hiding it well, but he looks at me and I can see the burning pits of hell in his eyes.
This guy is one step away from being a killer.
I shiver. I should not find that attractive or exciting.
But fuck me, I do. It’s my curse for growing up too close to the Jackal.
He doesn’t seem to notice me the way I react to him, but that makes sense.
I’m not stunning like he is, and I’m definitely not the most gorgeous girl in the room.
It doesn’t bother me, though, I’m just trying to get by, to skate under the radar and make it through my last year before adulthood.
I walk away from him easily to take the stand, a thrill of triumph I can’t quite contain lighting up in my chest.
Unlike him, I’m not here to defend myself from my own mistakes.
If I were, I'd end up with a life sentence with zero chances of parole—or the death penalty. The things I’ve done to get here, to have a chance at freedom, they’ll follow me for the rest of my life.
But that doesn't matter. Act by act, brick by brick, I’ve paved my way here, and now I’ll get what I’ve sacrificed so much for.
I can’t let anything mess this up for me now, so it’s time to put away the empty, cold shell I had to become to survive. I don’t know who the new version of myself will be, but I’m ready to find out.
When I step back out of that hellish courthouse with a fresh set of emancipation papers in my hands, notarized and legally binding, I’m ready to split.
Even on a Thursday afternoon, the city is thrumming with a violent energy.
It’s constant here, as is the reek of desperation.
It's a distinct kind of smell, one that blends into the background quickly if you're born and bred here, but it's always the first thing newcomers talk about.
Not that I meet many before this place loses its shine with them, of course.
A true Mounty, I'm from the south side of the docks, also known as the slums, and all of my neighbors are either addicts or gangsters.
The 'All-American family' sitcoms that play on repeat in bars and dingy laundromats are more like fantasy to me.
The street is busier than usual, making it hard to see danger coming, and I tune Margot out entirely even as she rambles on in her inane way.
It only takes a fraction of a second to figure out that I’m exposed, and every second wasted here is a risk.
The courthouse is nestled at the intersection of a three-way junction, with the Jackal’s turf on one side and the Crow’s on the other, so heading down the block and taking the long route back to the docks is the only option for me.
The sidewalk we’re standing on is too open, too many eyes and ears reporting back to people who would pay a pretty penny for any scrap of information on my movements. I might have been given my ticket to freedom, but I still have to cash it in, and emancipation means nothing to a corpse.
The real problem is the coffee cart down the block.
It’s in the direct path I have to take, and I clock it instantly.
It has a decent line of waiting customers and one guy running it.
It’s not a franchise; the tires are punctured beyond use, and the flags lying perfectly still in the sweltering heat are sun-bleached beyond recognition, so it’s been there for a long time.
Probably longer than I’ve been alive by the look of it.
The guy running it keeps glancing over in our direction.
It’s casual, but in that way that’s unnatural, like he’s doing everything he can to radiate ‘harmless’ energy in our direction. It could be the location and years of experience dealing with the types of people coming and going from here, but the third time he looks over, I’m done.
With him and my social worker’s bullshit.
“…at the group home until you’ve been officially discharged from my care—”
I cut her off, my tone flat and devoid of anything close to civility.
“I’m done for today, so let me get out of your hair.
You have other kids to get to, I’m sure, and I’ve got schoolwork to catch up on.
I’ll stop by the group home later this afternoon to grab my stuff and finish up any paperwork you have for me. ”
She blanches, giving me an obvious once over, like she’s trying to figure out if I’ve been body-snatched.
When I only stare blankly back at her, she stumbles over her words as she tries to reply, sputtering like an idiot.
It’s almost funny how thrown she is by the change in me; from her easiest assignment to finished with her.
But then there’s a shout across the road that catches her attention and I take my chance to melt into the crowd without another word.
Ready to disappear from the city entirely and get the hell out of here, I curse under my breath when the street vendor starts looking around frantically, coffee sloshing out of the carafe in his hands and splashing on the woman standing before him.
She lets out a shrill squeal of pained outrage, already cussing him out with a finesse that only a local could pull off under pressure, and I cross the street while the onlookers are distracted by the spectacle.
I make it less than ten feet before the commotion abruptly stops.
Without pausing or so much as glancing back to figure out what’s happened, I pick up my pace and prepare myself to run.
My heart thumps violently in my chest, cold clarity washing over me, but then the crowd thins out as people get the hell out of dodge, and I get a clear view of a neat row of motorcycles parked across the street.
I should have known.
My gaze collides with one of the giant, hulking men clad in black with leather boots and vests covered in a myriad of tags. The backs of each of them have the same woven patch, a huge grinning reaper with skulls sitting over the club’s name; the Unseen.
Harbin once told me off for calling it a vest, told me it’s called a ‘cut’, and seemed put out by my lack of respect for it all. When he pointed out his ‘Enforcer’ tag and tried to give me a lesson on club politics, I shut it down fast.
It doesn’t matter what name you give it, an MC is as good as a gang in my mind, and I steer clear of signing my life and soul over to anyone for their own personal use.
Still, when the biggest of the bunch nods his head to motion me over, I change direction and beeline over to them.
The move isn’t a demand or disrespectful.
We’ve known each other too long for those sorts of misunderstandings, and three of his patched brothers are currently beating the coffee cart guy to a pulp, regardless of the witnesses.
They are all clearly here to stand watch over me, like some sort of protection detail I never asked for.
That ‘Enforcer’ tag stands out to me now as Harbin jerks his head to get the rest of them to clear the area as I approach. His closest confidant is smirking at me like an asshole, but even he backs away to give us some space, which I wasn’t expecting but certainly appreciate.
The heat and that hot drug dealer have really taken it out of me today.
Nodding at the papers in my hands, Harbin speaks without looking at me. “You got what you came here for, then?”
With a shrug, I fold them up and tuck them into my waistband, flipping my shirt to cover them. “It took some maneuvering, but nothing I couldn’t handle. What brings you this far out of the docks, old man?”
He’s not an old man, not by a long shot. He’s barely in his thirties, but for a Mounty, that’s practically ancient. It’s an even greater accomplishment given the fact that he has a target on his back, painted by his own club, and still he’s fought off every attempt to take him out so far.
I get a sickening feeling that I’m about to trigger a new slew of hell for him.
He gives me a brief glance, like he’s expecting a knife between his ribs for having the audacity to even have this conversation with me. “I came to keep an eye out for you, kid. Good thing, too.”
None of my unease is on show; my tone is still as flat as ever. “This might come back to haunt you. You know what he’s like better than most.”
I don’t need to say who ‘he’ is.
There’s only one man we could be talking about, only one man anyone talks about when I come up in conversation. Harbin is risking a lot by being here, by sticking his nose into gangster business, and of all the kingpins to piss off, he is the worst choice.
He only shrugs. “The entire city knows I owe you one for that work you did for me with that dealer. I made sure of that. Knew it would come in handy someday, and it’ll cover me with your problem and mine, so don’t sweat it, kid.”
The southern twang is almost completely gone from his tone, ground down against the years he’s lived on the West Coast, but every now and then, his formative years in Tennessee will spill out into certain words or phrases.
I’ve left the city exactly once, and it was on a mercy dash across state lines for a mutual friend.
All I know about Harbin’s hometown is that his traitor father was buried in an unmarked grave in the mountains and he never wants to go back.
"You sure about all this, kid?"
Side-eying the hell out of the biker, I look away before he turns to eyeball me in return, only he takes his sweet time with it.
I mean, he's a part of the biggest MC in the Bay—he has nothing but time, thanks to the legion of men ready to follow his every word… at least, the ones who aren’t trying to kill him.
I steer clear of all of them as much as I can.
Not that I'm scared of the MC, not any more than what's common sense, anyway. I just really don't understand the idea of organized crime.
Harbin's hands have been tied for a decade already, so there's not much he could say to argue my point, either.
"My brain has always been my ticket out of this shithole—that or an unmarked grave. I thought you'd be happy to see the back of me. It'll make a lot of shit easier for you. Might even convince our friend to get out as well."
He scoffs and shakes his head. "He ain't leaving you behind. Not a fucking chance, kid. That fancy school isn't far enough away from your little problem."
There's nothing little about any of my problems and even Antarctica wouldn’t be far enough if running away was my entire plan.
Harbin might respect my skills, what I'm capable of, what I've done for him and our mutual friends, but he's underestimating me.
They all do.
Makes all of this easier for me, really. To be honest, it's half of my talent. No one looks at a starving kid from the slums of Mounts Bay and puts any stock in the rumors of what I can do.
Not until it's too late.
When the silence stretches a little too long between us, Harbin nods his head at me like we’ve come to some sort of agreement.
“You should stay at the group home for one last night. The nice lady said you could, right? Let her drive you to your new digs in the morning. I’ll make sure you get there safely; one last job for the road—on me, kid. No favors required.”
I blow out a slow breath, glancing over my shoulder to find the coffee guy sprawled out on the sidewalk, blood pouring from his head as he chokes on his own tongue.
Three of the bikers are rifling around in his cart, clearly looking for clues as to who put him up to tailing me, but the smirking asshole has helped himself to a coffee and a donut, powdered sugar dusting the front of his cut.
“One last job. Then you need to forget you ever knew my name, Unseen.”