Chapter 4
Dallas
Five Years Ago
I bend over, stuffing a handful of clippings into one of the canvas bags.
“Finish up,” Army tells us, rushing to rake everything into a pile. “We still have to do the Holybrook house, and rain is coming.”
I close my fist around more leaves and branches, loading them with the rest of the rubbish to be taken out.
But I don’t move faster. I make the same amount of money either way, and there will just be more cleanup after the rain tonight. Hell, we’re cleaning up from the last storm now.
The June heat settles on my skin like a coat, sweat soaking through my sleeveless T-shirt, and I glance behind me to the crystal-green pool.
We have a pool, but this one spreads out over the half a fucking football field that’s the Ameses’ backyard.
Three girls and one guy lounge waist-deep, little tropical drinks in their hands as some smooth music beats in the background.
I recognize Milo Price. He likes to come over to the Bay to slum. His girlfriend, Krisjen Conroy, stands next to him. Like Trace, she never seems to stop smiling.
Clay Collins and Amy Chandler laugh together, and I wish I didn’t know any of these people, but they go to school with Liv at Marymount.
When Macon started paying for our sister to attend that den of snakes, I didn’t say shit.
Iron was pissed—she should be with her own people, he thought—but the Saints would either break her or build her.
She’s holding her own like a fucking Jaeger.
Sophia Beaumont, the daughter of the house, swims around with a couple of her friends in one of the other four pools, all connected by narrow passageways.
“Bowers Lawn Care wears polos,” I hear Amy Chandler say in her I’m-so-innocent tone as if she’s a child who’s making a big-girl observation.
Iron walks past me. “No one wants to see them out of their shirts,” he tells her.
The girls giggle, and I throw another bag of trash into the pile.
Walking over to the pool they’re in, I grab the vacuum hose and drag it out.
Sweat drips down my temple. Fuck. That water looks nice.
Most pools are finished with blue tiles, but this one makes the water look like you’re on a white sand beach on an island that’s too beautiful to be real.
There are five pools in total, this one with a bench around the perimeter for sitting submerged beneath the waterline.
Knowing me, though, I’d piss in it before I ever swam in it.
“And we bring our own hoses,” Trace taunts, giving the Chandler girl his playful smile. “Lets us service so many little flowers.”
Her eyes widen, a gasp escaping her smile. She turns to her friends, Clay looking grossed out and Krisjen hiding her amusement behind her drink. Milo lifts his chin, his eyes locked on my brother. He’s not a threat, not without his friends anyway.
Lifting my eyes, I see Callum Ames in the distance, standing on one of the balconies of his house, overlooking the pool.
He gazes down, dressed only in his jeans, and I can’t tell who he’s looking at exactly, but his arrogance is obvious enough.
A young woman in a white bikini comes up to his side, dragging her hand over his chest. He doesn’t seem to notice her as he stares in our direction.
“You like tips?” I hear a girl ask.
I glance to see her eyeing Trace, who winds the hose into a neat pile at his feet.
I grab the vacuum and store it away in the concealed cabinet behind the hedges.
“My dad always stiffs you guys.” She tugs the string of her top at the back of her neck. “I don’t think it’s fair.”
He drops the hose to the ground, strolling over to her.
“Trace.” Army tries to stop him.
But my youngest brother squats at the edge of the pool, watching her pull the string at her back next.
I arch a brow. She thinks we’d really rather see her tits than have the money. As if Saint pussy is like caviar to us and we don’t get it every fucking day.
“Amy, what are you doing?” Clay whines behind her.
“Just giving him a little tip.”
She starts to pull the top away from her body, but in a second, I’m squatting next to my brother, shoving him away.
I grab the strings behind her neck and grip them tight, keeping them in place.
Her smile falls, and she tries to back away from me, but I hold her.
“That’s not how it’s going to go down with us,” I growl. “When it’s my turn with you anyway.”
Her lips part, her chest caving as she stares at me, frozen. We don’t clap our hands at the sight of rich girls. We’re the commodity, not her. They get a lot more wet with a roughneck than they do with someone in a fucking suit, and we know it.
“Dallas,” Army barks.
I hold her for another second, and then…I let her go. She sucks in a breath, her friends hurriedly retying her bikini top.
“What the fuck?” Army bites out under his breath.
I kick a few stray pieces of black mulch back into the bed. “Please,” I mutter. “She’s so wet the pool’s about to overflow.”
The hair on my neck rises, and I turn my head to look over my shoulder again, seeing Callum leaning into the telescope that’s perched on his balcony. It’s pointed at us. Or maybe me.
“You two, move on to the Holybrook house,” Army tells Iron and Trace.
They gather up their gear, leaving Army and me to finish tidying up and removing debris.
He finishes trimming, and I collect what falls away.
“You need to watch your behavior around these people,” he tells me, keeping his voice down. “Macon already has enough to worry about with Iron.”
“So Iron gets the right to have his fun?”
My favorite brother loves to fight, and if he doesn’t start picking his moments better, he’s going to get in a lot of trouble. Unfortunately, Macon can’t get through to him.
Army narrows his eyes on me. “You’ll see what that fun costs him. It always costs something.”
I’m counting on it. Getting out of trouble is more fun than getting in.
He goes on, “Macon needs you to use your head.”
“Macon needs me to pretend I don’t exist,” I spit back. “Just like she did.”
Army goes still, but he doesn’t say anything as he gives me a hard look. He knows I’m right.
“Don’t have an opinion,” I recite, “don’t talk too loudly, don’t get drunk, don’t argue, don’t fucking breathe…I get it, okay?”
I’ve heard this shit my whole life, either from Dad or from Macon.
I can only imagine what my brothers had to do to support us when our parents died seven years ago. Macon was in the Marines, out in the world, and he was called home—our father died from a heart attack, and two months later, our mother ended her life. It had been years coming, though.
And Macon has the same problems in the head that she did. My father kept talking her into having more kids, thinking it would keep her alive, and Macon was twenty-three when he inherited the burden of those decisions, which he didn’t want any more than she did.
He doesn’t want us.
But Army’s voice drops to nearly a whisper. “He was never supposed to be our father, Dallas.”
My fists tighten around the bag so hard my knuckles turn white.
“And neither am I,” he says in a stern voice.
Taking the bag from me, he walks off with his saw.
I never asked you to be my father. Not once. Trace and Liv, at least, found a way to connect with the older ones. Olivia is the only girl, so everyone speaks a little more gently and smiles a little more often with her.
And Trace makes people laugh.
If I make it another year without Macon or Army killing me, it’ll be surprising. I think that’s my plan, actually. Have fun, die young.
I cast another look up at the balcony behind me, zoning right in on the lens of the telescope. The ghost of a smile plays on my lips as I stare back at him.
He’s looking at me.
Taking the bag, I walk to the wheelbarrow, slowly. Is he following me?
I toss the bag inside and turn my head just slightly, lifting my eyes to him. What the hell is he doing?
Heading back to the hose lying on the ground, I watch him, the telescope moving with me as I walk. Leaning over, I take my time picking up the hose. Maybe he thinks he’s threatening me. Maybe he’s practicing for a sniper shot.
Maybe he wants to look.
“The house is your responsibility,” a man says.
I squat out of view of the window as I wrap the hose around my elbow and shoulder.
“And when I make a decision you don’t like I get treated like a dog,” a woman bites back.
“I’m nice to dogs.”
Shit. In the Bay, a woman would grab the back of your hair for that one.
Mrs. Ames—I assume—doesn’t say anything for a moment.
Then, with a calm voice, she states, “I can’t read your mind, Garrett.”
“Then forget about your fucking charities,” he barks, “and overhaul the pool and patio this winter. How about that? You should be consistently redecorating to stay up to date, Ava. Once everyone else’s house looks like ours, then you redecorate again. Is that clear?”
His condescending sneer makes me want to hammer him into the swamp bed.
And I like their pool.
A door slams, and then a drawer shuts. I don’t fuck around for another second. Hauling up the hose, I carry it back to the wheelbarrow, avoiding Army as he gathers all the garden tools.
I throw Callum Ames another look, but he’s turned his attention to the girl at his side. His body still faces me, though, like it’s following me.
“You remember what this is?” a man’s voice calls.
I twist my head just in time to see Callum’s father, Garrett Ames, step onto the pool deck.
He swipes a football off the grass and launches it at his son above. He doesn’t stop walking or look back to see Callum just catch it before it hits him in the face.
The conversation in the pool quiets, and I steal a glance, noting Callum’s tight lips and flexed shoulders. He clenches his jaw, shoving the football behind him, like it’s burned his hand.