Chapter 1
Scarlett
Family - noun - multiple definitions
Chiefly ‘Prescott High’ slang: Queen - noun - the head of a family, in every sense of the word. May be used interchangeably with titles like ‘Boss’ or ‘Daddy’.
Example: When a Queen asks, “Who’s your Daddy now?”, the only possible response from a fuckboy, boyfriend, fiancé, husband, or Nightmare should be, “You, Queen. Always you. Only you.”
Force, Scarlett. Interview. Conducted by Emma Jean Thompson. 31 Dec.
All statements are officially on the record.
Scarlett: I give up. *Sigh.* I know why you’re here: you want the scoop. The 411. The spilled tea. The skinny. A ride on the gossip train. I dislike busybodies, Miss Emma Jean Thompson.
I’ve warned you over and over again.
Emma: Listen, we have a deal. We understand each other. *Taps nails on the tiles, gets scolded by Treasure for disrupting the manicure.*
Interviewer’s Observation: Scarlett looks up from her spot in the bathhouse, a white towel wrapped around her body, arms covered in ink.
Her dark hair floats like kelp in the scented waters.
Dozens of dangerous-looking girls are listening in and contributing ad-lib style commentary that will not be written down.
White steam rises from the hot baths. A samurai sword is propped against a wall.
Scarlett: Yeah, yeah. You’ve been waiting for a while to hear me tell it in my own words, eh?
Emma: *Laughs softly.* I’d love to know how you managed to get an entire neighborhood to keep a secret, for so many years, too. That’s impressive. Takes a big reputation to pull something like that off.
Interviewer’s Observation: Scarlett drinks deeply from a sake bottle.
This reporter has only had two small ochoko cups to be polite.
I remain clear-headed throughout this process.
I was required to strip down to enter this building, but even mostly nude, I will remain professional, concise, and empathetic.
My intention is to write as close to the truth as possible.
Scarlett: Now, where should I start? You know what happened when the mayor found your apartment.
You know what Ash did.
A week and a half before the mob exacts its pound of flesh…
Some asshole ripped my heart out and ground it to a bloody pulp.
No, no. Not just some asshole, but my own flesh-and-blood.
I’m processing this fresh betrayal on the frosty shores of an icy lake in winter.
It’s bone-chilling out here. Not as cold as it’s gonna get, but still freezing.
I can see my breath. I can see Widow’s breath.
His eyes are dark honey, anger mixed with sweet sentiment, like a bee sting.
A prick with some sugar. Widow is an unusual creature.
“Your sister sold you out to the mayor? Is that what you just fucking said to me?” he growls. He’s always growling. Like a werewolf. Wild, unpredictable, driven by the need to prove himself. To catch up. He’s been out of the Prescott scene for half a decade.
He’s also one hell of a driver.
We’re only alive through sheer…skill. I blink up at Widow, feeling this strange warmth overtake me.
My cheeks color and my breath puffs out in white clouds, a wash of heat in a frigid landscape.
Shards of ice jostle against the shore like broken glass.
That’s the only sound out here, straddling this strange perimeter between Prescott and woodland.
It’s eerily silent.
Four cars with at least four drivers are now underneath that water. I can’t answer Widow’s question about Alexis, so I say something else instead.
“You saved our asses. Good driving, Adrian.” I clutch onto the front of his too-tight t-shirt. He uses hot fingers to grab onto my upper arms, holding me in place or holding me steady. I don’t know. I’m still on the phone with Bohnes, his spectral voice filtering out of the speaker and calming me.
“Scarlett, my crooked angel, an update would be fantastic.” Bohnes sounds like he might be at his breaking point.
Knowing him, I bet he feels like a failure because he can’t take care of every single scenario by himself.
He needs backup. We all do. We’re here together, a merry band of freaks.
A happy horde of hellions. “Don’t worry about your location: I’ve got a tracker on Widow’s car. ”
Adrian’s right eye twitches, but he doesn’t comment on that. Bet he already knew.
“Thanks, stalker,” I murmur, moving past that statement without another word. I asked Bohnes for this, and he’s my Nightmare. I’m not concerned. He should always know where I am. Always. I’m more concerned with my older sister, Alexis, and the possibility of her being a dirty double-crosser.
Scarlett, you stupid Prescott idiot. So stupid you missed betrayal in the bedroom next door. Like, fuckin’ how?!
Why…why did I not suspect my sister from the very beginning?
“Is she spiraling, Widow?” Bohnes asks absently, just before I hear the sound of a vehicle approaching at high speeds. Bohnes’ Chevy Chevelle SS. 1969. Best year for muscle cars. Like a sexy black hearse.
“Scarlett,” Widow barks, tightening his grip on my arms. Bruising me.
He just kissed me like he made up his mind about something.
Pair that with the information about Alexis.
With Bohnes, about to crest the bridge and do God only knows what to cross this lake to get to me.
Whatever it takes. Something crazy. Am I spiraling?
Nah, not little ol’ me. Hah. Haha. HAH. “The reporter playing damsel in distress, she’s the one who told you Alexis is responsible for this? How the hell would she know?”
Widow sounds like he suspects someone else of sabotage. Like Ash.
I can’t help myself. It just slips out. “Journalist,” I correct, infuriating Widow. That heavy brow crinkle is hot. He thinks I’m being too glib. It’s the only way I’m coping. Dark humor is the thing keeping me from having a psychotic break.
“I was on my way to Emma Jean when you called,” Bohnes adds, sounding annoyed—at Emma Jean. “I should’ve let her die and worried about more important things.”
“I handled it,” Widow replies smoothly (read: cocky as fuck). He glances down and notices my bare feet in the crispy frost-tipped grass and curses, kicking his boots off. I’m lifted up like I weigh nothing at all and placed into warm brown boots with half-done laces.
Uh. I might protest this on another day. A day where I wasn’t contemplating the idea of my own sister stabbing a knife into the base of my spine and twisting the blade. Anyway, Widow looks hot as shit in his socks.
There’s a car coming. I recognize the sound immediately: it’s the Chevelle. Both Widow and I turn to look, still holding onto each other as the engine in his purple Corvette Stingray ticks and cools.
“You handled it?” Bohnes laughs, a sound that’s somehow reminiscent of two skeletons banging it out. “This time. Last time, you practically chucked Scarlett into the river with your own two hands.”
Bohnes’ car appears on the bridge, heading at rapid speed for the missing end of it. There were cones everywhere, but by the time Widow and I made the turn, it was too late. We were going too fast.
Bohnes is going even faster.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Widow demands, but there’s no answer from my Nightmare.
Bohnes overshoots the end of the demolished bridge, launching himself diagonally toward the eastern shore.
His car sails above the frigid lake and then lands with a crash in the frosty grass at the water’s edge.
With a squeal of tires and kicked up dirt, he rockets toward the ‘Vette, slamming his brakes on just in time to slide right up on the pair of us.
He’s out of the car and coming over to me in a white trench coat and boots that are more buckle than boot.
“Four cars in the water—” I begin, just before Bohnes captures my face between two huge hands to study me. He’s all ghouled-up today, smudges of heavy shadow under his eyes. Thick black liner to emphasize his pale blue irises. Like death. Eyes as cold as this lake. “What?”
He searches my face with that unnerving intensity of his.
“Remember: I know everything, always. You’re upset about Alexis.”
He isn’t wrong, but now isn’t the time. I ignore the statement. I pretend I don’t see the real question in his eyes: are you okay? He wants to know how I’m doing emotionally, never mind the four dead assailants under the silent surface of the lake.
“These are the mayor’s men, according to Emma Jean.” I take a deep breath. “We need to call Ash…pen.”
Bohnes frowns and Widow groans from behind me. They both hate him. Doesn’t matter. Wouldn’t he know better than anyone whose men are lying dead at the bottom of a lake on an Archer Realty construction site?
“No.” Bohnes holds my face a little tighter, leaning down and peering into the depths of my soul. He really is creepy—in a good way. “Tell me how you’re feeling first.”
“Hey, what doesn’t kill you makes you homicidal, right?
That how the phrase goes?” Neither guy is amused with me right now.
“I’m fine. Just…call him.” I gesture at Bohnes quickly, and he works his jaw, lifting his chin and leaning back.
He’s really taking my measure today. He does it all the time, but this is more intense than usual.
Bohnes has ideas about something. He uses his phone to call up Idiot Fuckboy Two. It goes straight to voicemail.
Bohnes looks up at me in question, but I shake my head.
“Alexis smashed my phone,” I admit. That move makes so much more sense now.
Miss Emma Jean Thompson, journalist extraordinaire, told me that my sister knew Aspen.
The real Aspen. That Alexis now probably knows this Aspen is actually Ash.
That’s as much as I got out of her. What a revelation to receive on a day that Widow’s car was tailed and chased.
Somebody who knows about Widow sent the mayor’s goons after us.
Alexis? We need to talk to Ash. He’ll know the answer.