Chapter 26 – Aster
ASTER
It’s been hours since Lily and I spoke. According to my watch, it’s only been thirty-three minutes. But it feels like hours.
She said I shouldn’t come, and she was probably right given I would have broken Vetrel’s hand the moment he laid a finger on her.
Of course she can handle herself, but that doesn’t mean I was going to wait in my house for a box to arrive with her head in it.
She wants to do this herself, fine, but I’ll be waiting here, leaning against my bike across the street from Vetrel’s, trying to look inconspicuous, in case it all goes to shit.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket, veins rushing hot. Gregory’s name flashes across the screen, the first time in over a year, and it instills a panic in me. After the text a few days ago, I thought he got the message.
The phone sits so long in my hand, the call goes to voicemail. Well, I guess that decides that. Buzzing restarts immediately, heightening my anxiety
Belle’s words echo in my mind. Just talk to him… for me?
We haven’t spoken since I chewed her out for giving my father my new number. Only a text here or there. Is she okay? Is that why she was so insistent I call him?
The ringing starts again, and I force myself to stop being such a little bitch and tap the accept button.
Bringing the phone to my ear, I hear, “Aster?”
“Gregory.”
He huffs a sarcastic laugh. “Call me whatever you’d like, but you’re still my son.”
“What do you want?” I ask, not in the mood for his bullshit.
“What, a father can’t just call to catch up?”
“If I thought you actually gave a shit about me, sure. But you?” I force a calming breath. “Nah, you want something. What is it?”
“I’ve seen the news, son. You’re doing good work there.”
“Since when do you care about my journalistic efforts?” Last I remember, he said it was a blatant waste of talent, and I might as well become a ballerina. Does he even realize how hard they work?
“I wasn’t talking about the articles,” he says, tone dripping with insinuation, and my muscles seize.
“Then what are you talking about?”
“Don’t play coy. The Kodak Killer?” He tsks, and I push off the bike, pacing before it. “I bought you your first camera when you were thirteen. I may think journalism is a waste of time, but I never denied you had the talent for it. Written or photographed.”
Why the hell do I keep being accused of kills that aren’t mine? I mean, damn, I’m happy I’m not accused of the ones that are, but still. “I don’t know what you think you know,” I grit out, blood boiling at his insinuation. “But the only thing I have to do with Kodak is reporting his crimes.”
“Aster.” His tone is placating. “You have a unique set of skills. Which I helped hone and train since you and Oliver were kids.”
“Don’t talk about Ollie,” I snap, anger vibrating to my bones.
“When are you going to accept what happened to him as necessary?”
“When hell freezes over,” I grit out, clutching the seat of my bike.
“Such a waste.” He clucks his tongue. “Well, whenever you’re done playing vigilante, there’s a position for you.”
“When will you get it through your head?” I snap. “I’m never coming back.”
He chuckles, low and easy in a way that makes me nervous. “We’ll see about that.”
“Are we done here?” I knew answering this call would be a mistake.
“I’ll make sure Annabelle’s on standby in case you need to get bailed out again.”
“Leave Belle out of this.” My hands shake, pure, all-consuming hatred causing the temperature of my body to rise. “I’m perfectly capable of calling her myself.”
“Family protects family.” It’s a threat, not a promise. The same one he used on me the night Oliver died. “We’ll be here when you need us.”
And the line goes dead. Not if I need him. When I need him.
Like he’s so damn sure I’m going to mess up and get caught. I’d rather chew off my own arm than ask him for help.
Gripping the device tightly, I fight the urge to smash it against the pavement.
My father has been trying to manipulate me my entire life. Since Oliver and I were old enough to join him on hunting expeditions, which according to him, was the age of ten. I knew how to gut a hog by the age of twelve and skin a bear by the age of fourteen.
He raised us to be hunters. I just never realized the kind of hunters he was raising us to be. Not until the summer before senior year of college.
And for that, I will never forgive him.
As I force the phone back in my pocket, the front door of the bar bursts open, and Lily stumbles out. Her eyes are wild as she glances both ways, then bolts down the street.
What is she—
Two burly guys appear, and I curse as they spot Lily, then sprint after her.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath and mount my bike. Within seconds, I’m zooming after, an arm’s reach from her. She glances over, her face slacking when she realizes it’s me, and I’ll save that little feeling of pleasure at her relief of seeing me for later.
Slowing to a roll, I place a foot on the ground as Lily catches up to me. She grips my shoulder and mounts the bike in record speed, throwing her arms around my waist. “Go, go, go!”
Tires screech as I rev the gas, the bike vibrating beneath us as it takes off.
An unmistakable bang fills the air, and I accelerate, my heart pounding erratically.
Was Lily shot? Her arms are tight around my torso, which is a good sign, but I won’t be able to breathe until I confirm she’s not bleeding out.
Traffic is heavy, and I weave in and out, road rules be damned, blowing through two red lights until I’m positive we’re far enough away. At the third red light, I finally stop, turning to get a brief view of her, and ask urgently, “Were you shot?”
“No.” She shakes her head, and it eases a fraction of the gnawing ache inside.
We’re ten minutes from my house, but I make it there in five, not stopping until I pull the bike into the garage and out of view in case, for some godforsaken reason, those asshats are able to trace it to this street.
Lily dismounts, and I follow suit, rushing her inside.
Once the door is shut, she snatches off the wig, her blonde-and-pink frazzled hair tumbling down. When I catch sight of her face, anger coils in my gut. She may not have been shot, but she’s definitely injured. Bruises and dried blood cover her body. A particularly nasty one is forming on her face.
“I’m going to kill them,” I promise, reaching out and running my thumb along a cut on her jawline, and she winces, pulling away. “Every single one.”
Her chest heaves as she attempts to steady her breathing.
She tosses her large bag near the front entryway.
Her boots clack against the hardwood as she walks through the house familiarly towards the living room.
I know she’s only aware of the layout due to her stalking tendencies, but I’ll admit I enjoy seeing her comfortable in my space.
She sits on the edge of the couch arm, exhaling loudly. “I’m fine.”
My lips part, eyes sweeping her body, every cut, red mark, and soon-to-be bruise only fueling the rumbling fire within me.
“You are not fine.” On her neck is an unmistakable splotchy bruise.
He’s fucking dead. “Is that a hickey?!” Dead a hundred times over.
My mind spirals, fantasizing of all the ways to dispose of his useless corpse.
Lily pulls her hair over her shoulders, hiding the mark. “That is so not important right now.”
“Feels important,” I growl.
She rolls her eyes. “Anyways, in case you were wondering, Vetrel and his asshats will not be terrorizing his tenants anymore. Matter of fact, he won’t be terrorizing anyone in Cleosville.”
“I find it hard to believe that man would agree so easily.”
“I was very convincing,” she says, and my curiosity heightens.
“Lily, what the hell did you do?”
“Simple.” She reaches behind her and pulls a gun out of her waistband.
Every hair on my arms stands. I hate guns.
Another piece of baggage from my raging daddy issues.
“I told him he better never squeeze any of his tenants for money again.” She aims the gun directly below my belt, and I freeze.
“Or I’d shoot his dick off.” She smiles, faking a kickback for dramatic effect.
“Okay there, sharpshooter.” I step closer and gently lower the pistol with my hand. “While I appreciate your methods, I’m going to need you to stop pointing that at my dick.”
She laughs, leaning forward, and sets it on the coffee table with a clank. “We should dispose of it anyways. It’ll probably match ballistics for about a hundred cold cases.”
“What? I thought you’ve never—”
Her glare silences me. “It’s Vetrel’s, you dipshit.”
I rub my temples. “You stole his gun?”
“And his dignity, I’d bet,” she says with a satisfied smile, entirely oblivious to the tornado of panic she’s causing inside me with each new piece of information.
“Anything else you stole I should know about? You got his left thumb hidden somewhere in that miniskirt?” My eyes wander up her long legs. Do not let the miniskirt distract you!
“No, of course not.” She hops off the couch and leaves the room. Twenty seconds later, she returns with something sparkling in her hands. “Just this.”
She presents to me a gemmed skull with a knife sticking through it. “What the fuck is that?”
Light reflects off the jewels as she rotates it in her hands, causing a rainbow effect throughout the room. “Vetrel had it. I thought it looked like Isla’s pieces, just a little less cheap. And he was super cagey about it.”
This woman.
“Let me get this straight.” I point at the “art” in her hands. “You went to the office of one of the most ruthless men in the country—”
“Didn’t you say the city earlier?”
“Does it make a difference?!”
“It might,” she sasses, and I roll my eyes.
“So you went into his office, threatened to shoot his dick off, and then stole what’s likely a multi-million-dollar art piece?” My eyes narrow as I look more closely at the skull. “And possibly a real person’s head?”