Chapter 3
THREE
By midnight, the entire city knows about the Vulture’s violent demise.
Mounts Bay might have the highest crime rate in the country across the board; statistically, life expectancy drops by decades the moment you cross into the city limits and the farther south you are, the more precarious your chance of making it out alive becomes.
No one gives a shit about death and violence here, not unless it’s happening to you.
That heightened sense of apathy wasn’t something that registered with me until I made my game plan on getting out of the city and started studying seriously.
Reading about the ‘real world’ outside of the four block radius I’d existed in up until then…
well, let’s just say it blew my fucking mind to find out that other people gave a shit without having any skin in the game, but even here…
Everyone takes notice of a member of the Twelve dying.
The entire city immediately goes into a self-imposed lockdown.
The Fox cancels his party, informing the rest of us with a long rage-filled text message that is half drug-fueled rambling, and half a clear warning of retribution for the money and good-times he’s missing out on thanks to this interruption.
I roll my eyes at it, all too used to dealing with the mania that comes at the end of a bender.
My mom was at her most abusive when she was on a come-down, just existing in her presence was enough to set her off.
Great.
Now I’m thinking about my mom.
After I hashed out terms with Illi and he left the townhouse, Harley and I argued. Viciously. I then stomped off to bed to text Avery and give her the full rundown, seething and done with the entire night.
Now, I’m also forced to ignore the texts and calls from the other two, sending them a simple reassurance that we’re fine and there’s nothing for them to be worried about.
It’s pretty obvious that Harley has told them a different story, discreetly but with just enough details to have them both climbing the walls, so there’s no safe corner of this relationship for me to hide in for the night.
Thoughts of my mom plaguing me is the only thing that could possibly make my night worse, so naturally, I can’t get her out of my head as I try to fall asleep.
It takes all of a minute to figure out it’s impossible without him wrapped around me now that I’ve gotten used to sharing the bed again.
Huffing and thrashing about like a child, I can’t believe I woke up this morning in such a blissful state, so fucking happy to have him here and being sappy as shit with each other, to somehow now be back to freaking out about how much I genuinely like him, and how utterly fucked I am if everything goes to shit.
It only pisses me off more, sending me into a full rage spiral, and it’s only the trembling in my hands that gives away the fear at the heart of it.
The moment we reached a stalemate and he realized there was no talking me around, he abandoned the beer he’d been drinking before Illi’s surprise visit, finding my emergency bottle of whiskey instead.
He didn’t stumble to bed until he’d finished the damn thing, sprawling out on his back with an arm’s length between us that might as well have been a world away, and he was out cold the moment his head hit the pillow.
I’d usually get a little pissed about the deep, rattling drunken snores he chokes out, yet, despite my foul mood tonight, they’re oddly reassuring.
If nothing else, they’re proof the fucker is still breathing.
All three of my guys drink like fucking fish, so I don't need to worry about alcohol poisoning or him puking in his sleep, but somewhere near dawn I give up on sleep altogether anyway.
Sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee that is practically a bucket, I check my messages and find that the news of Illi and Odie’s induction has traveled fast. Scrolling past a dozen other pointless texts, I roll my eyes at the Tiger’s pathetic yet predictable requests to rearrange the exchange of photos and information, seeing as the Fox’s party last night was cancelled.
Instead of his standard paranoia-induced reliance on other members of the Twelve being present, he’s sent me a weirdly formal request for a daytime meeting at a deli on the Main Street in the early afternoon.
Broad daylight, multiple escape routes, a ton of witnesses and places to take cover.
It just shows how much they all underestimate me.
After a long shower, I slip out of the townhouse without waking Harley, leaving him a note along with a glass of water and some aspirin for his inevitable hangover, because I’m clearly a saint.
Despite everything, the drop-off runs smoothly.
The Tiger doesn’t question me about Illi, although his usual derisive comments are absent, and he keeps looking over my shoulder.
There are only two members of the Twelve without inductees left and, as one of them, I’m sure that the Tiger never feels more alone than when there’s a murder amongst our ranks.
It’s not until I turn to leave that he says quietly, hesitantly, like the words are being dragged out of him by force, “I thought you knew how to keep your head down. Protecting a killer isn’t a smart move, Wolf.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, forcing bravado I do not feel, but this is only the first confrontation of plenty more to come, and I’m not about to back down.
“I’m smart enough to see the writing on the wall that you seem to be missing, Tiger; The Vulture sold skin.
It’s not the type of business that cultivates admiration and respect.
There are thousands of people who wanted him dead.
I’m not protecting shit, other than my own interests.
I hope you’re not making assumptions here? ”
He eyes me carefully before giving me a curt nod and leaving.
The entire city is a complex and evolving map of ownership; the buildings on each street owned by gangs and criminal organizations, but the members of the Twelve claim more than everyone else combined.
I’m certain the Tiger picked this spot because the Bear has more stake on this particular street than even the Jackal, but it works in my favor.
I stop at a liquor store that’s protected and used by the Bear to launder his dirty cash.
The guy behind the counter takes one look at me and blanches, giving me a respectful nod before he’s staring at his toes like they’re fucking fascinating.
I grab more beer and two new emergency bottles of whiskey, walking out without paying when the guy waves me on.
Shit, he looks like he might die if I try to hand over a dime.
There’s nothing left for me to do except go back, but I groan to myself when I think of the hungover mess in my bed. How the actual fuck can I make him understand this? Ugh.
I’m already juggling the bottles to grab my phone and order a ride back when it pings with a text. I cringe, expecting a pissed demand from Harley about my disappearance but finding something else entirely.
I’m in the Bay. Can you send through your address?
Staring down at Blaise’s text, my fingers hesitate instead of answering straight away like I normally would.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited to see him—thrilled actually—but he’s supposed to be in New York with his parents.
I was already starting to worry about him, but him suddenly appearing in the Bay feels like a big deal.
Fuck, I’m not sure why, but with his texts coming less frequently and sounding a lot less like him as the break has gone on, it’s been like watching a storm brew and knowing there’s nothing you can do to prepare.
I chew my lip as I send him the address and then pause for a second before sending another message.
I’ve just finished a job. Can you pick me up before you head there?
I find a bench to sit on and send him the details of where I am.
It’s only once I hit send that I’m looking around at the street and wincing at the state of it.
I can only imagine what he’ll think of me being here, and the ‘job’ I was finishing up, but I don’t have time to freak all the way out because less than two minutes later, he pulls up in front of the bench I’m perched on in a goddamned Maserati.
I should’ve known better.
The car draws eyes. Too many eyes, and I don’t even have to pick out his men to know this will get back to the Jackal.
I scramble over to the car and load the bottles into the back seat before climbing in.
Whether he’s good at reading me and he knows my reasoning, Blaise has us moving the second the door shuts behind me, engine purring just a little too loud for my liking.
Fumbling around like an idiot, it takes me a second to get my seatbelt on, but when I finally turn to greet Blaise, all words dry up in my throat.
As my eyes roam over him, taking in every detail of him meticulously, a pressure begins to build in my chest that I don’t know what to do with, but it spells trouble for someone.
In an old vintage band tee with the arms cut off, his arms are brightly colored expanses of artwork I barely ever got to see at Hannaford, thanks to his uniform.
His nose piercing is also back in, but his hair is freshly cut, neat and respectable, even if the rest of him is all sex-soaked rock god.
He even smells amazing, every breath I take leaves me desperate for the next.
He’s hot as fuck, there’s no denying it, but for once that’s not what’s stumped me.
He’s a void.