Merry Mayhem
Part 1:
Pace
Day 586.
“Ashby, Kemp,” the CO behind the plexiglass blandly greets me. “Your personal effects.”
The bags are dropped onto the counter and I shift uneasily, glancing at the guy beside me. DK. That’s what everyone’s called him in the cell block. He hasn’t been in here long, only seventy-two days. Don’t really want to know the backstory. I just want to get out of here without this fucker following behind me.
I grab my own bag and sign the paperwork, watching from my periphery as DK begins a blase process of plucking small, shiny things from his bag. One by one, he inserts them into his face. Lip ring. Labret ring. Septum ring. Four in one ear. Guy’s got more metal than a fucking scrapyard, and none of it is flashy enough to distract the eye from the most obvious thing about him.
He has a thick, gnarly scar across his throat, ear to ear.
Like it was slit.
But that’s the thing about the Forsyth Pen. Everyone in here has scars. History. Grudges.
I try to remember the guy I was when I came through these doors 586 days ago. That guy would have made some smart-assed remark, like ‘Thanks for your hospitality,’ or ‘Can’t wait to write my Yelp review about the shitty water pressure.’
Instead, I put the pen down, skeptically eyeing the heavy door. “Is that it? I can go?”
“Happy Thanksgiving, inmates.” She flicks a hand at the guard. “Be seeing you again soon.”
I slink toward the guard with my hackles up, knowing DK isn’t far behind. Seems a little messed up to give two inmates the same release time, even for an upcoming holiday. We got along fine on the inside, but that’s just the way of it. In the Forsyth Pen, it’s Royals against the COs and gen pop, and I’ve got the right last name. The only territory that matters in here is rep, and no one has more of that than the Royalty.
But once I’m through the doors, I’m East End again.
And DK is graveyard trash.
Of course, there’s still a little voice in the back of my head that’s saying it’s a joke, one of Father’s cruel little tests, and I’ll get to the door only to be laughed at and slammed up against the nearest wall for a frisk.
But amazingly, the guard just opens the door.
He gives me a nod. “Good luck, inmate.”
And just like that, I’m out.
Out.
Not free.
The first thing I see is the sky, angry clouds hanging low and zipping above me at a speed that explains a sudden, aggressive gust of wind. It’s not raining, but the atmosphere has a ripe, fragile energy to it, like if someone just looked at the sky wrong, it could open up and drench us.
I listen for DK’s footsteps beside me, hearing the shuffle of his shoes against the pavement. The flick of a lighter. The abrupt scent of a clove cigarette. The billow of smoke that rises toward the wispy clouds above us. I’m so acutely aware of his every move, sprung to fight back, that I don’t even notice the white Porsche idling twenty yards out until the engine cuts.
My eyes are locked on the doors as they open, Lex climbing from the passenger side as Wicker rounds the front. I haven’t seen either of them in over a year. I tried at first. Their weekly visits were stilted, an odd sort of anger sparking around us. Not at each other. Maybe not even at Father. It was a special, futile anger with no one to direct it at, and I just couldn’t fucking take it anymore.
So I told them to stay away. To let me handle my shit inside. To spare us all the futile anger when we had plenty of use for it elsewhere.
But now they’re here.
Wicker’s hair is cropped shorter than it was when I last saw him, but Lex’s is just the same. Wicker has a tan and more muscles than I remember, and Lex looks fucking awful, all wan and tense. They’re a dichotomy, but beneath their crisp clothes and wariness, I see the buzz of excitement building in both their eyes, Wicker’s lips twitching.
“They yours?” DK asks, nodding toward my brothers.
My brothers.
Just like that, all the barbed tension in my chest unwinds. “Yeah,” I answer, jerking my chin at the dark Cadillac parked behind them. “Yours?”
Exhaling another plume of smoke, DK nods. “Yep.” He spares me a quick once-over, a corner of his mouth quirking. “Until next time, Ashby.” With a lazy salute, he begins trudging against the wind toward the car. It’s too tinted to see who’s inside, but I can take three guesses, and all of them are named William.
My brothers watch him climb into the back of the Cadillac, eyes reflecting the same unease I’ve felt since the bastard followed me out. But once it drives off, they turn their gazes to me. Wicker is leaning back against his car, a gust of wind fluttering his blonde hair, while Lex stands with his arms crossed, bracing against the chill of it. Both of them look antsy, but for every step they take forward, they pause, falling back.
They don’t know the rules here.
None of us have ever done time before.
I feel the pull in my gut, but I don’t let it lead me. Not until I’m sure. I lope toward them with my eyes peeled for movement, fully expecting Father’s car to pull up. He’ll despise my posture. My clothes. My hair. My new ink. Any trace of prison on my body will make it worse. Appearances, appearances…
“He’s not coming,” Lex says, both of them pausing to watch me carefully.
Wicker shifts his weight, nodding. “He’s in Northridge until Monday,” he explains, some of the caginess falling away.
And then he’s lunging for me, barreling into my stomach with a sloppy tackle. “Oof–fucker!” My curse is expelled with a shocked laugh, my twist sending him off-balance.
It’s impossible not to laugh with him, getting him in a headlock. He feels so fucking solid and real as my knuckles assault his scalp. “You’re off your game. Lex clearly hasn’t been beating your ass enough—oof!”
Lex’s tackle catches me off guard, but I recover quickly, slipping away to bounce on my heels, fists raised. He arches a brow, grinning. “I can still take you.”
“Doubt it.”
Wicker ruffles his hair back into place, eyes narrowing playfully. “Think lockup made you tough, huh?”
I go to swipe Lex with a playful punch, but it never lands.
Instead, our arms go around each other, the hug so tight that my lungs constrict. I don’t like the way he looks and I like the way he sounds even less, his voice gravelly and thin. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy to forget that Lex is more than elegant fingers and perfect posture.
He just about squeezes my damn guts out.
“Okay, okay,” Wicker laughs, wrenching my shoulder. “Let him breathe.”
But the second Lex lets go of me, Wicker replaces him, clutching me in an unforgiving embrace. “Shithead,” he mutters, right into my jaw. “Teach you not to keep us away again, you fucker.”
When they release me, it feels like I pull in my first lungful of air since the morning I got arrested. It’s crisp and wretchedly invigorating, and when I look at my brothers and their beaming smiles, I get this moment of utterly perfect clarity.
“Holy fuck,” I breathe, pushing my hair back. “I’m really out.”
Lex’s eyes follow my hand, the brightness in his eyes dimming. Without a word, he snatches my wrist, inspecting my new ink—the tallies and prison art—with a jagged frown. “Jesus Christ, Pace. Did you really have to—”
“This calls for a celebration,” Wicker cuts in, hooking his arm around my neck to drag me toward the Porsche. “I know it’s a few days early, but I’m thinking turkey and dressing, a bottle of rum, South Side’s best bootleg porn, and so much pie that Coach is going to have a conniption.”
I glance over my shoulder at Lex, who’s trying to hide how bothered he is. “He has to set up his room first,” he says, eyes rolling.
*
“Stop leaning,” Lex gripes, tugging at a section of my hair. I wince and give Effie’s ruffled feathers a stroke, dragging the laptop closer. “Your scalp needs some serious conditioning. I can’t believe they wouldn’t let you have a better comb. It wasn’t even max security.”
Wicker’s across the room, holding up a cable like it’s a noose. “This one?”
Juggling Effie and the laptop, I say, “Plug it into the second port.” I’ve been directing him like this for a while. Not exactly the celebration he had planned, judging from the dejected glances he keeps sending to the rum and DVD on my nightstand.
In the reflection of the black monitor, I can see Lex’s hand shake. I can tell Wicker notices too, eyes shuttering as he averts his gaze. Every now and then, Lex will shake them out, and crack his knuckles.
“Suck my balls,” Effie squawks—not for the first time. Every time she does, Wicker’s mouth twitches. It’s the only reason I’m not laying into him. She hops from one of my knees to the other, back and forth. “Suck my fuck. Suck my Wicker. Goddamn it, Wicker…”
“Eighteen months, and barely a word out of that bird,” Lex mutters, dipping his fingertips into the tub of gel. “Suddenly, she’s a fucking chatterbox.”
“Dirty bird,” Effie agrees.
I frown, inspecting her bald spots. Stress, Lex said. She’s been pulling her feathers out. “No,” I whisper, giving her another gentle stroke. “Pretty bird.”
She pauses to inspect what Wicker is doing on the other side of the room. “Effie is a pretty bird,” she relents, easily being the hardest part of the day. Feeling the way she nestles into me, flapping her wings wildly with an excitement that’s probably not good for her, the bald spots…
I’m not sure how I can be so happy to see something that breaks my fucking heart.
“I love you,” she croons before pecking at my knuckle.
Fucking gut me, why don’t you?
“There,” Lex says, giving the lock of hair a final twist. “How’s that?”
I reach up to finger a twist, nodding. “Perfect. Thanks, man.” The shower itself was pure ecstasy, but then there was the new clothes, the Thanksgiving dinner delivered from East End’s best caterer, and the blunt we smoked out on the balcony an hour ago.
There’s only one more thing I need.
“Boot it up.”
With a shrug, Wicker jabs the power button, bringing the bank of monitors to life. Effie does an odd sort of shimmy, zipping to my other knee before flapping her way to the desk. It’s probably been a long time since she was settled in front of a monitor.
The room is a mess of cables and boxes, so Wicker steps over everything carefully before helping me up off the floor, assessing Lex’s work. “Damn, you’re getting good at that,” he says, smirking as he takes me in. “The pledges are going to be trembling in their loafers now that an actual felon is living in golden row.”
The golden row is a group of townhouses the frat’s upperclassmen live in. It’s my first time calling it home–if it can even be called that. The apartments are nice, more modern than a lot of Forsyth housing, and going by the party I can hear next door, feature walls that are made of paper.
Wicker’s words linger heavily in the silence, though. The thought of being in the frat again, going to classes, fucking with the freshmen…
It all seems like another life.
How in the fuck am I going to live it?
The mirth in Wicker’s blue eyes fades, and I almost regret not playing along. “Was it bad for you in there?” he asks.
I look at the depthlessness of his eyes before glancing at Lex, who’s still flexing a tremor from his fist. “Was it bad for you out here?” Both of them are pointless questions, and all of us know it. Lex looks like he’s been run over by a bulldozer, and Wicker is a little too determined to hide the shadow in his eyes.
Lex clears his throat, standing. “I have that thing tonight.” To me, he adds, “Sorry. I won’t be long.”
“What thing?” I ask, distracted as I shore up my keyboard and mouse, clicking into directories to open whatever feeds still feel familiar. Beside me, Effie trills out a mockery of Wicker’s laugh.
“Effie loves Pace,” she says.
Right before plucking my F12 key and absconding with it down the desk.
My chest twists.
“Prior obligation,” Lex says, shrugging into his jacket. “Don’t drink all the rum without me, got it?”
Wicker jerks his chin upward. “I’m not saving the porn, though.”
Lex’s mouth forms a tense line. “It’s lost on me, anyway.” Before I can ask what that means, he’s turning me toward him, hands on my shoulders. Lex gives me a long, considering look, eyes sure and penetrating. “It’s good to have you back, brother.”
This hug is less aggressive than the first, but no less full of desperation. His fingers claw into my shirt between my shoulders, holding me close. “Don’t let Wick get you into trouble.”
My grin is automatic. “Missed you, you neurotic fuck.”
He jerks with a chuckle. “You have no idea.”
With one last slap against my back, he stalks from the room.
Wicker eyes me carefully as he slides the DVD into the player. It comes up on the right-most monitor, grainy. Vintage porn. “You’re quiet,” he notes, dropping onto the bed. “Where’s your head at?”
I glance at the neighboring screen—a shot of West End’s gym—before dropping down onto the bed beside him. I stare at the ceiling, grateful that he gives me the time to roll the question around in my mind. “Everything feels weird, Wick.” I can feel him beside me like an old, familiar weight, the feeling soothing but strange. “Loud. Bright. Too warm.” Frustrated, I pull off my shirt, not even paying attention to the naked girls on the porno’s screen.
Wicker raises an eyebrow, whistling. “You clearly had a lot of time for exercise.”
Snorting, I glance over at him, tapping his shoulder. “You, too.”
A slow, wicked smirk crosses his face. “I’m on the Lacrosse team now.”
My brow knits up in confusion. “Seriously? You quit hockey?” At his nod, I wonder, “But… why?”
Wicker’s always been an artist on blades. The thought of him running down a field to catch a ball makes my stomach vaguely unsettled, like something is off with the world.
Humming, he bounces a shoulder. “Can’t be on the ice alone.”
“Alone?” I blink. “There are five other guys.”
He turns, catching my gaze. “Yeah, but none of them are you.”
I get that same twist in my chest I did earlier when Effie said she loved me. It’s hard to shake. It’s too complicated to call guilt, but too fundamental to call grief.
It feels like a part of me never came out of that cell.
Sighing, I try to reconcile this new world I’ve stepped into. Wicker Ashby. Lacrosse star. Sounds fucking ridiculous. “Gets you a lot of pussy?” I ask, curious.
He scoffs arrogantly. “I get myself a lot of pussy. Lacrosse just gives me a field to play on.”
“Yeah, you’re good at playing the field,” I tease, flicking at the faint outline of a recent hickey on his neck.
But then, Wicker suddenly blurts, “So the Beta Rho who walked out with you…”
Internally, I cringe. Wicker’s baggage with the Barons is complicated, and he can be such a possessive little brat. “DK,” I clarify, fully expecting Wicker’s wrath. “What about him?”
But instead of wrath, I get Wicker’s devious little grin. “You nail that, brother?”
“No.” The answer is instant, full of disgust.
“Oh, come on,” he insists, “push his face into a pillow and close your eyes, I bet he’s a nice piece of ass.”
I gape at Wicker. “Bro, I don’t even know him.”
He frowns. “What’s to know?”
I shake my head, unable to think of a reply Wicker might understand. For him, sex is little more than taking a drink of water. He’s always been touch-hungry. Voracious. It’s all about the physical act for him. Lex, too.
That’s never been the way for me. I’ve fucked around, sure. When the need gets too much. When I find a girl who’s quiet and pretty. When I get drunk enough to let my guard down.
But I need something.
A spark.
A connection.
Wicker breaks the pensive silence with a hopeful, “But you got some, right? Fuck, I bet prison sex is intense.”
Shrugging, I confess. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Wait.” He levers up onto an elbow, gawking at me. “You’d better not be lying there, looking like a goddamn snack, and telling me you’ve gone eighteen months without using your dick.” When all I do is stare at him, his face pales. “But you got head, right?” He makes a crude jacking-off motion. “Handies?”
I snort. “Man, you really haven’t seen—or smelled—the guys in my cell block.”
Wicker looks aghast, flopping back down. “Holy shit. First Lex and his limp dick issues, and now your complete inability to capitalize on premium felon ass. I’m really carrying this family in terms of reputation.”
“You’ve been watching way too much porn.” But then my thoughts screech to a halt. “What limp dick issues?”
Sighing, Wicker flicks a hand dismissively. “He’s been having performance problems or whatever. Completely tanked an opportunity to double-team this dancer with me last week.”
Now I’m the one looking aghast. “Shit.”
Wicker’s mouth forms a grim line. “Yeah.”
There’s a long stretch of silence where I fix my eyes on the porn on the screen, not even absorbing it. “He looks—” I work my jaw around words I don’t want to say. “He looks bad, Wick.”
“I know.” Wick’s voice is quiet, a thread of pain in the crack of it. “I’ve tried to take care of him,” he adds, not meeting my gaze. A deprecating smile sours his expression. “It’s not really my strong suit.”
“Hey.” Reaching out, I touch his cheek, forcing him to turn to me and hear my words. “He’s here. He’s ours. You did good.”
Raising his hand, Wicker’s long finger curls around my wrist, a deep unease etched into his brow. “Everything got so fucked up, Pace.”
I thumb the skin beneath his eye. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.” His jaw hardens, the grip on my wrist bruising as he holds me still. “Don’t apologize. Not for this.”
I don’t know what’s going on with Lex, but I do know this: “We’re all doing our best, yeah?”
Wick’s throat jumps with a swallow. “Yeah.” His eyes flick downward, the fingers on my wrist moving up my arm. “For what it’s worth, I think the new ink is hot.”
I could laugh and say he thinks everything is hot. For all his elitism and arrogance, I’m betting Wicker could find something fuckable about literally anyone. But below that gleam of sudden, casual lust in his eyes is a silent desperation that always makes my stomach drop.
When I brush my mouth against his, he doesn’t even seem surprised.
Just relieved.
I roll to hover over him, initiating a slow, deep, sucking kiss. Wicker sighs into my mouth and grabs me by the hips, pulling our groins together. My reaction to this is to thrust lazily against him, elbows digging divots into the bed on either side of him.
Wicker makes a soft sound against my mouth and lets his hands wander down to my ass, grabbing two big handfuls. He uses his grip to pull my hips down as he bucks up, grinding our erections together in a rush of delicious friction.
I haven’t just made out and dry-humped with someone in actual years. I forgot the appeal of it—the slow grind, the greedy clutches, the way our hands disappear beneath shirts and waistbands, just aching for that touch of skin as our mouths make increasingly more obscene sounds, all wetness and needy noises. The rocking of our hips drives Wick’s higher and harder, seeking more of the shape of my cock against his own.
Then he rolls smoothly on top of me. Wick’s always been a livewire. Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile. Right now, he latches onto me with a force that’s all at once stunning and gutting. He’s not touch-hungry. He’s starved.
That’s how it feels as his tongue loops around mine, the hard line of his dick painful against my hip. I grab his face and try to steady him—to show him that it’s okay, I’m going to give him what he needs.
But when I work a hand between us to get to his dick, he stops to look at me, eyes heavy and glazed. “You really didn’t fuck around with anyone?”
I pop the button on his jeans, eyes rolling. “Jesus, no. Let it go.”
“Good.” He smirks, tugging his shirt off. “That means you can fuck me without a rubber.”
Pausing, I watch him. “Wait, you mean like…?” We’ve never been shy about trading the routine handy. A blow job here and there, if we’re drunk and deprived enough. We’ve only done full-out anal one other time, and it wasn’t much to write home about for either of us.
There are two spots of color on each of his cheeks. “Father just made me get tested last week. Something about a job.” A shadow creeps into his expression. “But it’s cool, I’m clean.”
I’m so caught up in fury over whatever fucking ‘job’ requires him to be clean that he already has his pants off by the time I absorb what he’s asking for. “Wicker, wait.”
His cock is hard and flushed as he kneels over me with an expectant tilt to his mouth. “Don’t you want to fuck? It’s been eighteen months.”
That’s the crux of it, and when I shake my head, I ignore the way his face tightens. “I’m not a job, Wick. I don’t need sex as a ‘welcome home’ gift.”
He blinks, reaching for the button on my pants. “Maybe I do.”
As he pulls me from my jeans, his touch warm and firm, I see it in his eyes. The need. It’s only then that I allow myself to really consider it.
Wicker isn’t like me.
He doesn’t need a connection to fuck someone.
But he needs to fuck someone to feel a connection.
Hooking my thumbs into my waistband, I push it down, deciding, “Yeah, okay.”
Wicker’s eyes go alight in that special way I’m used to when we’re like this; hard and rebellious and high on the secret of one another’s pleasure.
He flops down beside me on his stomach, reaching down to adjust his boner, trapped between his belly and the mattress. “Just finger me open good and go easy. I haven’t taken a dick since freshman year.”
“Dude, come on,” I argue, tapping his hip. “Roll over.”
He looks at me over his shoulder, arching a brow. “Sure you don’t want to think of someone else? That redhead you’re pretending you don’t have pulled up on your laptop down there?”
I glance at the laptop, still open on the floor.
Rosilock’s green eyes peer out at me from the screen.
I pointedly ignore the unasked question. “If I wanted to push someone’s face into a pillow, I could have gotten that in prison. Or so I’m told.”
Wicker seems to think about this for a moment before rolling to his back, cocking a knee up as he fists his erection. “Alright, but this definitely makes it ten times gayer. Not a problem for me, obviously.”
Scoffing, I grip my own cock. “Yeah, I’m the straightest guy about to be knuckle-deep in his brother’s ass. Also, we need lube.” He reaches over, opening the door to my nightstand with a mocking flourish. I shake my head. “I’m not even going to ask when or how you snuck that in there.”
“Oh, I always travel with lube.” Tucking his arm beneath his head, he watches as I get my fingers slick. “Remember last time?”
Jesus.
Junior year.
It was July. We were so horny and had enough sweat between us that we didn’t even bother with lube, which was probably a huge mistake. Both of us winced through the whole experience, and then resolved to never do it again.
And here we are.
The second I get a finger into him, a bead of precum gathers on the head of his cock. “Fuck,” he rasps, spreading his thighs wider. “Fuck, come here.” His hand hooks around my neck, dragging my mouth to his as I finger him open.
It’s easy to get hard when I’m kissing Wicker. He throws himself into it with reckless abandon, drawing out my arousal like it’s a challenge. In the heat of the moment, the thought comes to me that Wick is the only guy who ever could. It’s not about dicks versus pussies.
It’s about safety. Comfort. The ability to let go of this dogged vigilance long enough to indulge in the slow roll of his hips.
“Another,” he says, panting the words into my slack mouth. The second finger meets resistance but he bears down into it, groaning. “God, I bet I’m gonna be so tight.” Another surge of precum.
In an amazed voice, I ask, “Are you getting off to the thought of fucking your own ass?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” The tips of his toes brush my calves as he gazes up at me, a lazy tilt to his mouth. “My ass is a goddamn miracle.”
I shut him up with another kiss, sneaking a third finger in alongside the first two. This one takes him some time to adjust to, his kisses growing stilted and enduring. The whole time, he keeps trying to pull me closer, my arm wedged awkwardly to find the right angle. I keep my eyes fixed on his face, the little divot between his brows, the flutter of his eyelashes, even when our tongues meet, as slick and hot as he is around my knuckles.
In a low, gruff voice, he insists, “I’m good,” and nudges my elbow, hissing as my fingers slip from his body. “Just fuck me.”
It only takes a second to slick my cock up, my other palm pressed into the mattress beside his shoulder as I nudge forward. He wasn’t wrong, though. Pushing the head of my dick through the pucker of muscle is pure ecstasy, his ass tight and warm. I pause there for a beat as he grunts, face slackening with the stretch of it.
He pumps his cock in his fist. “Fuck, that’s—yeah, more.”
I sink another fat inch into him before I have to pause again, this time for my own sake. I turn my face into my shoulder and groan, the engulfing tightness so close to being too much. Eighteen months with nothing but my own hand, and now my dick is in an ass, without a rubber between us?
“Yeah, this isn’t going to last long,” I decide.
“See?” Wicker says, tugging my face to his. “Miracle.”
Something about this kiss is different. Maybe it’s about the way I’m rocking into him, the drag of my cock making way for a deeper thrust, but when we meet it’s almost too intense. His eyes holding mine. The sting of his fingers digging into my shoulders. His teeth grazing my lip.
This doesn’t feel like a random rebellious fuck.
I tangle my fingers into his hair, right against the crown of his head, and punch forward, feeling his grunt against my teeth. The urgency claws its way up my spine like some deprived, dormant thing, and suddenly I’m fucking him like my life depends on it.
The headboard slams against the wall and Wicker growls, biting into my lip. I answer with another hard shove of my hips, drawing a wild sound from his throat. Maybe if it weren’t for this hungry, starved thing taking me over, I could have enough coordination to jerk him off as I push into him.
But I use what little I have to wrench his thigh up, giving me the room I need to get deeper.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasps, slamming a palm up into the headboard. He has this tight, astonished look on his face as he pushes into my thrust. “Fuck, right there. Don’t stop.”
My body seems completely aware of what it’s supposed to do now, some mindless instinct driving my hips forward in these choppy, skin-slapping thrusts that have Wicker shaking beneath me. My lips stutter against his cheek the same way my feet skitter against the mattress, struggling to get me closer, deeper. “Wick,” I say, voice thin and strained. “Gonna need you to take care of yourself here. I can’t—I can’t—fuck.”
He says, “Three steps ahead, brother,” and reaches between us to grasp his dick. I feel his knuckles drag against my tense abs as he strokes himself, the sweat building between us apparent when his other hand slides against the back of my neck.
He makes a fist in the back of my hair to keep my face near, to hold me steady as he surges up for a clumsy, open-eyed kiss. I feel my toes start to curl with the mounting sharpness of pleasure blooming within my core, that sense of physical sweetness in the space behind my balls. When the first wave of my orgasm hits, Wicker’s thighs clamp hard around my middle, heels digging viciously into my ass, mashing me closer as my body jerks its first shock of release.
He watches me like this is a triumph, his eyes flashing in satisfaction as I empty my balls into him. “Fuck yeah, give it to me,” he demands, his own arm flexing as he jerks himself to the finish line. When he does, his shoulders shudder more than the rest of him, this heaving motion that curls him forward, forehead pressed to my shoulder. I duck my chin and watch as he comes over his pumping fist, muscles seizing. It feels more like we’re sharing an orgasm, trading it back and forth, than taking our own.
And if he saw my glance at the laptop screen, then Wick doesn’t seem to care that I erupted to the sight of fiery red hair, soft freckles, and plush, pink lips.
*
“Seriously?” I shoot him a skeptical look. “A hat trick? Against Northridge?”
“Yep.” He takes a hit off the joint and passes it over, holding his breath.
I pluck it from his fingers and take a long drag.
Wick’s across the bed from me, looser now, relaxation easing over those aristocratic features. It’s obvious he needed a release as much as I did. “Lacrosse isn’t as fun as hockey, but I’m still good at it.” He laughs. “They put me on all these banners all over campus—pushing me as one of Forsyth’s best.”
The touch of irony is evident in his voice. Wick talks big, but he doesn’t really think he deserves the recognition. He’s an orphan with a secret bloodline tied to the shadows. He’s a pawn to Father—to the rich and powerful. Whittaker Ashby can sell anything—mostly himself—even the University knows it.
Even through his bluster, I have to admit to myself that I missed this. Just hanging out with my brother, talking sports and girls, and catching up on the petty town gossip. Is it weird I was just balls-deep inside of him? Maybe, to others, but we grew up differently. No one else knows what it’s like to be an Ashby.
Soft female laughter filters through the thin wall. The party next door is louder now, hitting that drunken, no-regrets phase of the night.
“You want to go?” Wick asks, jerking his chin toward the sound. “Thanksgiving week rager for guys who stayed on campus. Everyone will be excited to see you.”
“Nah.” The idea makes my skin itch. “Not yet. I just want to finish getting this set up. You can go if you want.”
His response is to slink down in the bed, tugging the comforter over his naked body. His thick eyelashes flutter shut. “Maybe after a nap.”
I’m too riled to go to sleep. The switch turned on when I was in prison still firmly in place. I take another hit off the joint and stub it out. Eyeing Effie, I mutter, “Now where the hell did you put that fucking key?”
I find it in the bottom of her cage, tucked beneath some shredded paper.
It feels good to sit in front of my equipment and lose myself in the process, flipping through feeds, reacquainting myself to being eyes instead of ears. It’s how I see Lex returning, stepping out of his SUV with a tense cut to his shoulders. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been working when the door opens and he steps through.
Glancing back, I see the weariness in his eyes, a few strands of hair having slipped from his ponytail. “Hey,” he says, shrugging out of his coat.
“How was your ‘thing?’” I ask. They’re being intentionally evasive. Fair. I’m not in any hurry to tell them everything about the last eighteen months of my life either.
“Fine.” His eyes flick to Wicker, who’s visibly shirtless, eyes closed as his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. I watch Lex take in the state of the bed, and then the bottle of lube on the nightstand. He removes his watch methodically. “So you two…”
I shrug. “Just letting off some steam.”
He nods, tugging off his shirt. “You okay if I crash?”
Even though having sex isn’t something we do frequently, sleeping together is ingrained. It’s one of the hardest parts of being alone in prison. Sleeping in that single cot, night after night, missing the warmth and protection of my brothers.
“Sure.” A yawn rushes out of me. “I should probably try to get some sleep, too.” The party seems to finally be slowing down, voices more muffled as people pair off and head to their rooms. Wicker will probably be disappointed we missed it, but not as disappointed as me enduring it all blank-faced and cagey.
Lex and I move to opposite sides of the bed as he undresses. But right before I flick off the light, he turns his back to me, and I freeze. The crisscross of old scars is nothing I haven’t seen before.
But the new ones are a different story.
They’re gnarled and pale, just like the scar on DK’s throat, and I have to force myself not to go to him and feel the texture with my fingers. In my mind, I can hear the snap of the whip, smell the leather, and a renewed surge of anger licks at my spine. These new scars?
They’re because of me.
I know this is why he doesn’t like my tattoos and scars. To him, marks are a byproduct of punishments. A reminder of pain. A way to shame someone. He never got the choice to mark up his skin. That, like so many other things, was taken away from him.
Trying to shake out of that same tired, futile anger, I nudge Wicker to the middle. He flops over, arm already stretched out to grab onto Lex. Watching it, I snort. “I see he’s still a goddamn cuddler.”
Lex puffs out a silent laugh, giving Wick’s elbow a firm pat. “We didn’t actually do this much while you were gone,” he says, eyes flicking to me. “Share a bed.”
I want to ask why, but I nod instead, convinced I won’t like the answer. The thought of them waiting for me is both comforting and unbearably sad. My fuckup—no, her betrayal—took this from us.
Lacing my fingers against my stomach, I stare up at the ceiling, listening as someone next door belts out a bad pop song. “It’s Scratch, isn’t it?”
When I turn, Lex’s eyes are closed.
“You’re going through withdrawals,” I guess, knowing the symptoms well enough. It’s all over the Pen. Not hard to spot a desperate tweaker. When Lex says nothing, he says everything. Sighing, I add, “It’s hard to get clean, but I’ve seen weaker guys than you do it. You’ve got this.”
There’s a long stretch of silence, and I figure he’s fallen off to sleep. But then, “It’ll be easier now.”
I fall asleep to the guilty twist in my chest.
*
The scream tears through my sleep.
What now? I think, used to mid-night disruption. I roll over, not willing to get up until the lights turn on and the guards start banging on the doors. The scent of lemon instead of harsh bleach fills my nostrils, and I frown, reaching for the cold metal of my bunk, seeking the familiarity of my cell. But instead, my fingers are met with smooth wood. Soft blankets.
“Get him the fuck off of me!”
I jolt up.
The shriek is female, full of terror.
“Shit!” My brother’s voice snaps me into reality just as much as his body beside me, long naked limbs springing from the bed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“What is it?”
“237!”
I chase Wicker across the room and out into the hallway, following the beat of his feet on the floor as he wrenches the apartment door open.
He opens the door and light spills in from the hallway.
“You son of a bitch!” I hear, this time male. “Get off her!”
“Wick?” I ask, chasing his naked ass down the hall.
“I didn’t lock us in,” he barks, stopping at the door right next to ours.
It’s ajar.
He doesn’t stop to knock, just rushes right through, following screams that lead us to a bedroom off the kitchen. Both of us freeze at the sight of Lex standing in the middle of the room, just as naked as Wicker.
And our frat brother, Hughes, is landing a punch to his stomach.
“Hey!” Without considering the girl in the bed, tears streaking down her face, I jump on him, slamming my fist into Hughes’ temple. He stumbles, crashing into the dresser and sending a vase of roses crashing, shattered, to the floor. But it’s like he doesn’t even see me, lunging red-faced for Lex once again.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” he snarls, but I block his path, taking a punch to my jaw. I react in kind, burying my fist into Hughes’ cheek.
For a few seconds, we’re a tangle of tense limbs, but I ultimately overpower him, sending him careening straight into the wall.
His shoulder slams into it with a dry crunch, and I think for a second that I’ve just broken his bones. But no. It’s just the shitty drywall giving way, a ragged hole apparent when Hughes thrusts himself away, thumbing a bead of blood from his nose.
“This time you’re going to be de-crowned,” he sneers at Lex.
This time? I shake the question off. “And you’re about to become my second conviction.”
“What—” The sound of Lex’s cracked voice snaps my attention to him. He’s blinking against the light, pushing his hair from his eyes.
“What’s going on?” I ask, finishing his thought.
Wicker pushes between Hughes and Lex, touching our brother’s shoulder. I expect Lex to react, but his expression is just one of sleepy confusion.
“Ashby tried to rape my fucking girlfriend, just like Mitchell’s last week!” Hughes growls, face contorted in rage. “I came back from the bathroom and he was all over Frida!”
My eyebrow raises. “You sure she didn’t want it?”
He spins to snap, “Fuck you!”
“I didn’t!” Frida shouts, her panicked gaze moving between us. “He came in here all wild, acting crazy. I was sound asleep!”
“Hey!” Wick barks, drawing all our attention. “Pace, get Lex out of here.” He gently nudges Lex toward me, and then turns to the girl, perching on the edge of the bed beside her. “You okay?”
She shudders, sniffling loudly. “I think so. He just… just scared me.”
Wick pushes a lock of hair off her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I bet he did, sweetheart. Sometimes, my brother sleepwalks and gets confused.” Since when, I want to ask, but Frida’s eyes dart down to my brother’s thickening cock. Jesus, Wick. He gives her a slow grin. “I’m sure he got one look at you and couldn’t resist because you’re so fucking pretty.”
Hughes flexes his fists, barking, “That’s enough! Stop hitting on my girl and get the fuck out of here!”
I’m at the door when I hear Wicker add, “You let me know if you need anything, okay?”
“Go!” Hughes roars.
Wicker winks at Frida and walks out, flanking Lex on the other side.
“Want to tell me what the hell is really going on?” Because this is the first I’m hearing about Lex sleepwalking, but it sure doesn’t seem like this is new.
Wicker flashes me an exhausted look. “We just need to get him in bed and lock the door.”
At least he’s easy enough to direct, following us wordlessly back into my bedroom. I watch as Wicker guides him back into the bed, that angry divot in Lex’s forehead not disappearing, even when his eyes slide closed.
“Jesus fuck,” Wicker breathes, raking his hands through his hair. Gesturing at Lex, he mutters, “Okay, sometimes his dick gets hard.”
My scoff tumbles into uncontrollable, ragged laughter. I collapse onto the bed next to Lex, ignoring how Wicker flips me off. I taste blood in my mouth, and one glance at Lex suggests he’s going to have a serious shiner in the morning.
Wicker snags the rum from the dresser, throwing it back as he’s locking the door. “Violent boners and mayhem. Not much different from the cell block, eh?”
Restraining a grin, I take the bottle when Wicker offers it, flopping down beside me. “At least you both smell alright.”
586 days.
But when it comes to my brothers, it’s like no time has passed at all.
Part 2:
Wicker
Thwack!
The sound of Nick Bruin’s fist slamming into Connor Vaughn’s jaw echoes past the rumble of the drunken, cheering crowd, all the way up to the second floor. The good news is that I won my match and impressed Father enough to let me sit up here with him in the VIP area during the final fight.
The bad news is that Nick Bruin is a psycho, and he’s made an absolute embarrassment of Vaughn on the mat. I’m sure my little run-in with him earlier only fueled the inferno blazing through him, but now I’m trapped next to Rufus Ashby as his chosen one gets pummeled.
That being said, I’m not sure why Vaughn was chosen for the fight. He’s better at fixing Father’s books than throwing a punch.
“Jesus,” I mutter, when the ref finally takes pity on him. I peer down at the smear of blood on the mat as the two other current Princes carry him off in utter humiliation and defeat. Bruin stands on the ropes, tattooed arms raised in victory, and I grimace. “That was a shitshow.”
“That,” Father says, frowning at my language, “is what happens when you don’t keep your house in order.”
I wait for him to say more, but of course, he doesn’t, forcing me to ask, “Did something happen with Vaughn? I thought he was one of your golden boys.” The current crop managed to get the Princess knocked up. Thank Jesus. Takes a little pressure off the rest of us.
“I got the paternity results back.” His voice is low, although the other Royals have left their seats—well, the ones who actually came. Neither the Barons nor Counts showed. Saul Cartwright is surely gloating about Nick saving the night after the humiliating beatdown I gave to that pussy, Oakfield. The Lords are off to collect their winnings from the bookies below. I can see Killian Payne, seemingly comfortable in the role of King, stop by the ring. With one hand he shakes Bruin’s, while the other is firmly wrapped around his Lady. Father is still talking. “The child isn’t theirs.”
I blink, swiveling my head to stare at his stony profile. “What does that mean?”
“It means that the fetus that Piper is carrying doesn’t belong to any of the Princes.”
I do my best to act surprised, I really do, but I can still feel the heat of Piper’s mouth wrapped around my cock two weeks ago. I didn’t fuck her. I’m not that stupid. But when she offered to blow me at a party, who was I to say no to a Princess’ demands?
“I tell you this in confidence, Whitaker,” he continues, eyes fixed to the crowd, “because of your performance tonight, as well as at your other events lately.” My shoulders tense at the mention of it. Other events set up by Father. Fundraisers, symphonies, cocktail parties…
If I’m lucky, I’m there to play the cello.
If not… well, I’m there to serve.
He explains, “We’ve had too many failures lately. Our stock is weak. Too much watering it down. I’ve tried to allow the process to happen without interference, but it seems I’ll have to take a firmer hand with the selection from now on.”
“I’m sure you’ll get everything back on track,” is my bland response, not giving two flying fucks. The only benefit of being adopted and not sharing a bloodline with Father is that neither my brothers nor I are eligible for a higher position of Royalty. Thank god. The last thing I want is to be tied to one pussy for months on end.
Speaking of pussy…
I spot the redhead downstairs in a group of other cutsluts, celebrating Bruin’s win. I recognized her from our Thanksgiving celebration, the sight of her face on Pace’s laptop. It took me a few days to suss out who she was, but I eventually figured it out.
She’s not dressed as slutty as the other girls, her outfit sexy but still employing that innocent vibe. Her skin is so pale, so creamy. My jaw tightens with the urge to sink my teeth right into it and take a bite, making her pay for her part in sending my brother to prison for the last eighteen months.
As I’m watching, she breaks off from the other girls, looking giddy and bright as she meanders against the crowd, headed to the front doors.
“Alluring, isn’t she?” he says, drawing my attention.
“Sure.” I shrug, trying to play it off. Letting Father know you have an interest in something is the fastest way of getting it ruined. “If you’re into gutter rat.”
He watches me for a long moment, then clears his throat. “You should go. I know there are celebrations at the frat house tonight.” He gives me a shrewd smile. “Quench your thirst with the court now, so you’re ready to fulfill your obligations when the time comes.”
Being alone with Father is always a landmine, so the dismissal is appreciated. I leave quickly, heading down the stairs. I may have feigned disinterest in Red, but now that I’ve locked in on her, I plan to see it through.
I am the victor after all.
Pulling my hood up, I push through the crowd. I’m not one to hide, but after my win and Vaughn’s ass-kicking, there will be scores to settle. I’m not looking for a second fight. I’m here for the hunt.
It takes a minute to find her, but her red hair shines like a beacon as she disappears through the doors in the front. I see Cash Mallis on my way out, even though he looks a lot like me, hood pulled up to hide his face. Guess I’m not the only one unwelcome here. He’s exchanging a baggy with a jittery South Sider, and just as I pass him, Cash’s eyes catch mine, hardening with a challenge I’m buzzed enough to accept.
If he were in East End, I would.
But this isn’t my kingdom.
It’s cold outside, but I don’t feel it, my mouth parting to huff a cloud of chilly breath. It’s almost like I can taste her in the air, a strange fruity warmth lingering on the back of my tongue. I scan the road in front of the gym, searching for the flash of red.
I catch it disappearing around the side of the building.
It’s late and overcast, and since West End isn’t exactly known for its infrastructure, all the street lamps are either flickering or full-out dead. Smirking, I stalk down the sidewalk, following the warm scent.
Pace never actually told me about her.
I read her name in the deposition—Verity Sinclaire—this little section of legal jargon that briefly touched on probable cause, but she wasn’t part of his charges or conviction. She was barely an afterthought. Just some unfortunate fluke that gave an ambitious detective a reason to act.
Or that’s what people would have us believe.
But when your father is as powerful as Rufus Ashby, no one goes to prison unless he agrees to it. That’s what makes the whole thing harder to swallow.
When I turn into the alley, it’s pitch black, the sounds of the crowd inside muffled through the brick and mortar, but still vibrant, like a drum beat beneath my feet. I don’t even think twice about my footfalls on the asphalt.
It’s not long before something slams into me.
“Taking a stroll, Ashby?” There’s a flicker, a security light to my left suddenly flashing to life, and I realize who has me pinned up against the brick wall. Remington Maddox’s stony glare bears down on me. “You’re in the wrong place to be following girls into dark alleys.”
The girl in question is, of course, nowhere to be seen. There’s a low burning satisfaction in his eyes at having baited me so expertly.
Only one problem with that.
In a single, swift move, I have my gun pulled from my waistband, the barrel shoved up into Maddox’s chiseled jaw. “Yeah, I figured your gutter cunt’s really good at set-ups. You don’t think I can be tricked that easily, do you?”
He leans in, eyes flinty as the barrel digs into his jaw. “Your janky pistol doesn’t scare me. We toss better guns than that.”
“A bullet’s a bullet, and East End doesn’t shoot blanks.” Casually shrugging, I begin, “The only reason I fell for this little stunt is because I think it’s time for you and me to have a little chat.”
His lip pulls up into a sneer. “What could you and I possibly have to chat about?”
I push the barrel harder, but this fucker doesn’t even flinch. That’s always the issue with Dukes. All of them have a death wish. It’s impossible to scare someone who’s perfectly okay with dying. Fact in point, if my brothers and I ever got a true Baron in our dungeon, we’d be fucking powerless.
“My brother,” I bite out, watching Maddox’s face morph as the anemic alley light flickers. “He’s in your little druggy support group.” He’s gone twice now, the chaos with Mitchell’s girlfriend—and then Hughes’—probably being what set it off. All I know is that a week before Pace got released, Father began requiring Lex to attend a mandatory program facilitated by the university. It’s why Lex had to dip out the other night on Pace’s return celebration.
I don’t trust it one bit.
His brow creases in genuine surprise. “So?”
“So this is a warning,” I grind out. “Whatever he says to all of you degenerates in there? You’d better fucking protect it with your life.”
He laughs, eyes crinkling with menace. “And if I don’t?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” My grin is lazy and full of hatred. “If I find out anyone—West, South, or North—has repeated anything my brother’s said in there…” My fist tightens around the pistol as I lean in, hissing, “I’m going to fuck your Duchess until she’s nothing but a sack of limp, bloody, lifeless tits.”
One mention of his Duchess, and he looks absolutely fucking crazed. Maddox jerks, the movement small but full of power, and when the barrel of another gun appears—this one his—I’m not even surprised.
He jams it right beneath my chin, nostrils flaring wide. “You don’t know one goddamn thing about the group or my woman.”
I push into the pressure of the barrel, just like he did. “Yeah, I don’t. Because Lex is a man of his word. He hasn’t told us one fucking thing.”
“Then how did you know I’m in the group?”
“It’s my business to know who my brother is associating with.” Besides Pace’s obsession with tracking all of us, one of the few perks of being on the arm of the elite is access to information. It only takes a little nudge, a name drop or query before people are willing to talk. Which is why it’s important that Maddox understand what I’m about to say, so I give it to him while holding his glare, willing him to sense the gravity of the words. “But whatever happens in there? He needs it. It’s helping him. And if I find out someone’s ruined it for him, then I’m holding you personally responsible.”
His jaw tightens. “For West, South, and North. And the rest?”
I raise my chin, feeling the cool metal of the pistol. “East End and the Beta Nus are on me.”
With narrowed eyes, he wonders, “Why the Beta Nus?”
“That falls in the realm of business,” I reply, narrowing my eyes, too. “As in, none of yours.”
There’s a tense moment where both our fingers are on the trigger. As far as threats go, mine is reckless. For some reason, the Dukes seem freakishly attached to the Lucia chick. It doesn’t actually make sense, seeing as how she’s North Side.
Her family is the reason Maddox and Lex need a group to begin with.
But their fixation with her does give the rest of Forsyth a little leverage against West End, and that’s priceless.
Maddox exhales, the pressure of his pistol easing. “You don’t have anything to worry about,” he says. His jaw is taut, but there’s a certain understanding in his eyes as he laughs. “Our group is held together with so much red and green, you wouldn’t know what to even do with yourself.” When all I do is stare at him, the words making no sense, he rolls his eyes. “Mutually assured destruction, Ashby. We all know the rules.”
I don’t lower my gun, but I do inch it to the side, the standoff concluding. “Then consider yourself a little more assured.”
In the end, it’s an unfortunate scene for our respective brothers to stumble upon.
Just as the door beside us opens, Simon Perilini and Nick Bruin stepping out, Lex and Pace appear at the mouth of the alley, each of them freezing at the sight of Maddox and me, guns drawn.
In a flurry of sudden commotion, all four of them are drawing their own weapons, Pace and Lex’s shoes beating down the pavement as they run toward us.
“Let him go!” Lex’s eyes are wild in a way I usually only get to see late at night, when he’s pacing the hallways, searching for a target.
But on the other end of the alley, Bruin and Perilini are coming in just as hot, their guns fixed on me. “Drop it, Ashby!” Perilini barks, murder in his blue eyes.
Maddox and I act in synchrony, thrusting our guns out and backing away. “Whoa, everyone chill the fuck out!” Maddox yells, flashing me an annoyed look. “We’re just having a little discussion. This isn’t the shade of red any of us wants. Isn’t that right, Ashby?”
Eye twitching, I lower my gun, tucking it back into my pants.
Maddox follows suit.
The tension in the air is crackling, and I must be a little crazy because Maddox is beginning to make sense. This isn’t the mayhem either of us came looking for.
“We’re cool,” I relent, backing away toward my brothers with a lazy swagger. “I assure you.”
Maddox scoffs, turning his back to me without a care in the world. “Go tell Daddy you need a new manicure, Ashby.”
It’s hard letting him have the last word, but exhaustion settles in my bones. Bruin must feel the same way because he walks off next, and a ripple of de-escalation passes through the rest of us, no one willing to trigger a bigger issue between the houses. No one speaks until we’re in the car, when Lex eyes me, asking, “What the fuck was that really about?”
I want to snap and tell him I’m protecting our asses because of his fuck-up. That the last eighteen months have been nothing but upheaval and fear and one disaster after the other. But I don’t, because we’re brothers, and I’m with him to the end. So I shrug and do what I always do: fall on the sword of brotherhood. “He caught me trying to get under the fishnets of one of their cubsluts.”
“Jesus, bro,” Pace mutters in the back of the car.
Lex groans. “Dammit, Wick. Can’t you keep it in your pants until we get back to the Golden Row?” He casts an exasperated look my way. “That impulsivity is going to get you killed one day, you know that?”
I keep my gaze on the window, the shitty view of West End fading out of view, aware of what I’ve known for a long time: Family will be the thing that takes me down–blood or found–and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Part 3:
Lex
After a while, you learn the quiet corners of a busy hospital. What started out as a way to catch my breath during my volunteer shifts turned into a way to sneak off to get a hit of Scratch. This afternoon, it’s neither. I peer into the window that overlooks one of the ICU rooms and adjust the hat on my head.
Five weeks.
That’s how long I’ve been clean. The physical withdrawal is long gone, so it should be smooth sailing from here. The chemicals in my brain have evened out. I no longer feel the incessant need to scratch, digging blunt, bitten-off fingernails into tender skin.
So why does it feel less like sailing and more like one of those barges in a hurricane?
It’s been another long, hectic day, so I peer in at the John Doe and try to calm the wild, frenetic sensation in my chest. Father’s given me so many commitments that I barely have time to sleep, but there’s a small, secret part of me that’s bordering on grateful. The more I have to do, the less time I have to think about it.
Scratch.
One hit could completely fucking resuscitate me.
I thought I’d have a moment of privacy before heading down to the event in the community room downstairs, but of course, the second the stupid cap is on my head, the door opens down the hallway.
I snatch the hat off just as Dr. Stallworth walks down the hall toward the occupied room.
“Ashby,” he says, eyes darting down to the red velvet in my hands. “Need something?”
“No, sir.” I nod to the room, diverting his attention. “How’s our John Doe doing?
“Stable,” he replies, his face schooled in an impassive expression. It’s a doctor trait—never give away too much emotion. “He’s got a long recovery ahead, but he’s young and should be up to it.”
My curiosity about the man in the ICU isn’t just for a diversion. Father explicitly told me to use my access to the hospital to keep an eye on the patient brought in here a few weeks ago. I’m not sure why he has an interest in a low-level Scratch hustler from North Side—not after Lucia’s mansion was leveled off the face of the Earth—but I’ve learned that if Father has an interest, then I should pay attention.
Plus, an order is an order.
“Taking an interest in the burn unit?” Dr. Stallworth asks, running his hand over his chin, and I can’t help but notice the gold PNZ ring that matches my own.
“Just keeping my options open, sir,” I tell him. I’ve narrowed in on the med schools I’m applying to, but if Father has it his way, obstetrics will be my ultimate focus.
And if he doesn’t have it his way, then it’ll be surgery.
“Well, if you do, let me know. I’m happy to guide you.” He reaches for the door, but I don’t miss the smile twitching on his lips. “I’ll let you go. You don’t want to be late to the party.”
“Wha—” then I remember the hat in my hand. “Oh… right. Yeah, I should go.” Another of Father’s commitments.
He slides me a knowing look. “In my year, I had to play Santa. Tell me you’re smart enough to get out of that.”
“Just a regular elf,” I mutter, realizing it was pointless to pretend otherwise. I pull the hat back over my head, offering him a bland stare. “Happy holidays, Dr. Stallworth.”
“You too, Ashby. Tell your father I said hello,” he says before pulling his mask over his mouth and nose and stepping inside the sterile room.
With hiding out no longer being an option, I trudge my way downstairs. The holiday décor spills into the lobby, an explosion of reds, greens, and horrifically festive silver. Christmas is a South Side holiday, but the hospital is located in East End. That means it’s one of those events where the frats have to play nice and mingle. Therefore, I’m not surprised when the first person I see is Tristian Mercer, posing next to a massive, decked-out Christmas tree. It also happens to be positioned directly under large, gold letters announcing ‘Mercer Memorial Activity Center’. Adeline, East End’s unofficial event organizer, is snapping his photo. Two identical girls flank his sides, with grins that match his own. Sisters?
“Tucker, Marcus,” he calls out once the photo op is over. Across the room, I see two LDZ carrying a huge box of wrapped gifts. “Get those presents over to Santa before the kids get down here.”
“Can we help?” one of the girls asks, holding onto the sleeve of his designer jacket.
“I don’t want you wandering off.” He hesitates, eyes assessing the area, checking for access points.
“Tucker will watch us,” the other adds before he can say no.
Mercer snorts. “That’s not helping your case.”
“Hey!” Tucker says, looking affronted. “I’m totally responsible.” A gift slides off the top of the stack, landing on the floor with a crash. Tucker frowns. “I mean, with people.”
“I’ll keep an eye on them,” Marcus offers. “It’s a party. In a hospital. With sick kids and shit. What kind of chaos do you think is going to happen?”
Mercer’s eyes flick over to where I’m standing. I had no idea he’d even seen me. Pointedly, he says, “You can never be too careful,” and then pushes his hand casually through his hair. Put this guy and Wicker in front of the same mirror, and the world might collapse into a primping black hole. “Alright, go ahead,” he relents. When they rush off without another look back, he sternly adds, “Only two cookies each!” There’s a tinge of fond exhaustion in his eyes that takes me aback.
The way the girls giggle makes it pretty clear they’re not following that order. The grimace on his face when he turns back to me tells me he knows it, too.
“Plus,” he says, speaking to me directly, “if anything happens to them, your family will be responsible.”
My lip curls in disdain. “Little girls are safe in East End, which is more than I can say for South Side.”
Mercer’s laugh is low and knowing. “I doubt even you believe that. We’ve all seen what your little girls turn into.”
Tristan Mercer lecturing me about the fate of women is an irony too far. “Like you have room to speak.” I roll my eyes. “You run a goddamn brothel.”
His spine straightens, eyes darkening. “Hey, those women are there by choice and are well compensated for their services.”
“Yeah, you’re a real community builder.” I shake my head and the fuzzy ball on the end of my cap falls across my forehead.
His eyes jerk up at the motion, lips twitching. “Nice hat, Assby.”
“Glad you like it,” Adeline says, appearing suddenly, her hand full of shiny, fuzzy material. “I have one for you, too.”
Now it’s my turn to smirk. There’s no power in the universe as dogged as Adeline’s festive holiday spirit. She’s been running Eastview Regional’s charity drives since she was younger than me.
“Sorry,” Mercer says, giving Adeline what I’m sure he thinks is a seductive grin. To her credit, she doesn’t seem impressed. “I’d rather not mess up my hair.”
“All the volunteers are wearing them,” she says, thrusting the hat at him. “Think of how great it’ll look for you guys to all come together for this great cause.” Her eyes dart to mine. “I’m sure both of your fathers would approve.”
There’s a beat, one I understand more than I’d like to admit, before Mercer grabs one of the hats, relenting, “Fine.” He tugs it over his head, glaring daggers. “But no pictures.”
Adeline’s achievement is short-lived when the door opens and a hulking figure stalks in. His hands are covered in bandages, and Tristian narrows his eyes, asking, “Lose a fight, Perilini?”
“No,” he says, eyeing us both warily. “I volunteered. I don’t mind giving some time to these kids.”
“He doesn’t mean coming here,” I nod downward at the bandages. “He’s talking about your hands.”
“Oh.” He winces, then sighs. “Lav’s fucking cat got stuck in the Christmas tree. It took me twenty minutes to wrestle him out.”
“The things we’ll do for a little pussy,” Tristian says.
“You have no idea,” Sy mutters. “I assume that’s why you’re wearing that stupid hat?”
“Oh no. That’s on her.” Mercer nods toward Adeline. And then, eyes flashing with sinister glee, he sends her an excited grin. “Give him a hat.”
Sy snaps straight. “Fuck no!” he bursts, eyeing the green hat with a white fuzzy ball in Adeline’s hand. But at her admonishing look, his shoulders curl a little inward, throat clearing. “I mean… no, thank you. Ma’am.”
“If we’re wearing it,” I say, “you’re wearing it.”
“You’re seriously telling me what to do?” he says, fists balling. The move draws our attention to the shiny ring on his finger. The King ring. No one has said how he got it, but we all know there’s really only one way.
Too bad Simon Perilini isn’t the only one here who’s killed a man.
Mercer’s chest puffs up. “You may be the top bear of those cubs over in East End but you sure as fuck—”
“Hey!” I bark, making Adeline and two of the receptionists flinch. “This woman has spent the last month organizing this event. You aren’t on the Avenue or in some mangy gym. You’re on her turf, and you’re going to show her some fucking respect.” Taking the hat from Adeline, I thrust it toward Sy. “Either you wear the hat, or you can go reserve an OR right now, because it’ll need to be surgically removed once I shove it up your ass!”
Tristan snorts. “Take a chill pill, Mrs. Crane.”
“You are in a hospital,” Adeline quietly reminds us, glancing around the lobby. “A place where people—children—are sick and fighting for their lives. You’re here to spread cheer and joy, remember?”
The muscle in the back of the newly anointed King’s jaw tics, but he grabs a hat with both hands and yanks it over his head. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
Mercer and I both stare in silence. It’s like someone put a bow on a rabid Rottweiler.
He looks fucking ridiculous.
“That’s the spirit,” Adeline chirps, bending to pluck something green and fuzzy from the bag at her feet. She holds it up, beaming. “Now, the shoes! Aren’t they so cute?” The toes come to a whorled point.
There’s a bell at the tip.
She gives it a spirited jingle.
Sy and Tristian both stare at me with such utter contempt that it’s almost worth the pain of wearing them. Five minutes later, I lead them down the hall to Santa’s Wonderland, malevolent jingles punctuating every aggressive step we take.
*
To their credit, and probably because we’re under Adeline’s watchful eye, the three of us cooperate.
It helps that the room is broken down into a variety of stations that are designed to keep the children—and maybe our separate houses—busy. There’s holiday music blasting over the speakers and the scent of cinnamon and chocolate in the air. While Mercer and his sisters help kids make gingerbread houses, Sy stands guard over the cookie and hot chocolate table, arms crossed and intimidating like he’s a bouncer at the bar. I’m across the room at the main event: Santa’s throne.
It’s massive, and I have the sneaking suspicion that Father must have donated the gold and red velvet chair. He probably has spares in a storage room I’m unaware of.
“Who’s next?” I say, looking down the line of kids. They’re eager to get on Santa’s lap and tell him their wishes. Each one walks away with a gift from the pile Mercer’s minions stacked next to the throne. A little girl with blond pigtails and a dress bearing candy cane patterns stands at the front of the line. “You ready?” I ask her.
She nods, but looks uneasily at the man dressed as Santa, who currently has a little boy in his lap. I squat down until I’m at eye level with her. “What’s wrong?”
“I forgot my list,” she answers, expression strained.
My eyebrows raise. “Your list? Like for presents?”
She nods, chin trembling. “My brother is upstairs and he’s too sick to come down and I told him I’d tell him what he wants.” Her eyes well with tears. “What if I forget to tell Santa something and he doesn’t know what to bring?”
“Oh, well, Santa’s awesome like that. He has magic and knows.” I speak with authority, but I know nothing about Santa. There’s only one mythological father figure in our house and he’s not creeping into chimneys and leaving gifts. Gifts in the Palace are rewards for work done well. Christmas, like every other holiday, is a time for grandstanding and pretense. If Mary didn’t give birth to the next Prince of Forsyth, Father doesn’t give a shit. I smile down at the girl. “I have two brothers too, and I know they’d just be happy to know I’m thinking about them.”
I wipe a tear off her cheek, and she sniffs, looking a little steadier. “Okay.”
“You think you’re ready to go?”
“I think so.”
She slips her small hand in mine, but I don’t get a chance to rise off the ground before a loud crash comes from the front of the room. I spin, immediately noticing the guy in the doorway. His sandy brown hair is disheveled, and he’s got a thick shadow of hair on his chin. That’s not what puts me on alert. It’s the redness in his eyes—the purple rings underneath.
And the scabby marks running up his arms along with a snake tattoo.
Scratch.
My gaze shifts over to Sy, and I know he recognizes the signs. His best friend, Maddox, is in my group. Our eyes meet and his jaw stiffens.
“Where is he?” the tweaker barks, digging his fingers into his arm. “I know he’s here!”
“Young man,” Adeline says, striding right over. “You can’t interrupt—”
His hands thrust out, slamming into her. She flies back, stumbling into a table filled with art supplies. A chorus of cries fills the room, the children panicked, and the violence propels me into action. Without thinking, I rush toward Adeline, crouching at her side.
“Hey,” I say, gently touching her, “are you okay?”
Across the room, Sy makes his move, leaping over the snack table to charge the Count. He’d probably have the element of surprise, too.
Except he jingles.
The junkie spins, locking in on Sy. “Don’t fucking touch me!” he roars.
But Sy is a Duke. He’s West End. Bells or not, finesse isn’t his area of expertise. He just barrels right over to the guy, clutching the junkie’s shoulder. “This is a goddamn Christmas party, not a Scratch house!”
The junkie swings around, eyes wild. A sudden flash of silver makes my hackles rise, and without thinking, I place myself in front of the kids. He’s carrying a blade, jagged on the edge, and Sy jumps back, barely saving himself from a stick to the gut.
“Drop the knife,” I command, voice low and full of threat. “Don’t do something stupid.”
“I know he’s here.” He licks his bottom lip and tightens his grip on the handle of the blade. “And I’m not leaving without him. Go fucking find him—”
His words are cut off by the distinctive clicking of a gun’s hammer.
“Put the knife down, North Side,” Mercer’s voice is cold and hard. I glance over and see him standing protectively in front of his sisters. “Or the only place you’re going is to the morgue in the basement.”
Everyone in the room—the other volunteers, Santa, the kids—they’re all frozen, other than a few terrified cries, watching this scene go down.
Merry fucking Christmas, kids.
“Mercer,” I say, holding out my hand, in what I’m pretty sure is a futile attempt to settle him down, “put the gun down.”
He tightens his grip. “Not a chance.”
“Put it down,” Perilini agrees. “He’s high. Adrenaline is pumping through his veins. He’s looking for a reason to snap, and there are innocent people here.” He positions his body between the Count and the rest of the room. “We need to de-escalate.”
“I can’t do that,” Tristan says. “Not when he’s a threat to my girls.”
Sy’s eyes meet mine and we both know this is about to turn into a bloodbath.
Taking a deep breath, I tell Tristian, “There’s a kitchen off the back. You can take them and everyone else out of here.” I swallow, keeping an eye on the junkie, who has his hand in his hair, tugging at his scalp. Jesus Christ. Is this what I look like when I’m going through withdrawals? Is this what that girl woke up to when I attacked her in the middle of the night? He looks like a goddam monster. “Get everyone safe.” I look down at Adeline, who has a bruise blooming on her temple. “Her, too.”
Tristian’s eyes flick to mine before he jerks his chin to his sisters. “Go. Get everyone to the back.”
“Are you coming?” one of his sisters asks. Her fingers are curled tightly into his jacket.
“No, baby girl, but I know you can keep everyone safe.” He touches her chin. “We’ll take care of this and then you can come back out and have all the sugar you want.”
Who the fuck knew Tristian Mercer had a soft side?
The junkie paces as everyone scurries to the back. “He needs to come home,” the guy is muttering, body strung tighter than a piano wire. “We need him back!”
“It’s… er, Corbin, right?” I never really paid much mind to the Scratch circle on the Avenue, but he’s always been around.
At the sound of his name, his head jerks up, crazed eyes locking on mine. “You took him,” he snaps. “You wanted it all for yourself, didn’t you? He doesn’t belong to you! He belongs in North Side!”
Sy is visibly losing his patience, fists flexing. “Who the fuck are you even talking about?”
Corbin spins, the blade of the knife thrusting into the air. “Don’t you fucking play games with me. I saw them pull him out of the fire.”
Sy swallows, throat tight. A flicker of recognition sparks in his blue eyes, but the kicker is when he looks at Mercer. Shit. Is he talking about the John Doe upstairs? There’d only been one known survivor of the Lucia house fire–the kid currently in a medically induced coma on the eighth floor.
There have been whispers about what happened over in North Side but nothing directly linking the Dukes back to the explosion. But if these two houses are in cahoots? Fucking hell. That changes everything.
They may have a reason to end this guy right here, which is confirmed when Tristian re-levels the gun at the junkie’s chest.
“Too many witnesses!” I snap, stepping between the gun and Corbin. The move startles him, and he reacts by pressing the knife to my chest. I let the sharp point burrow into the fabric of my shirt as I lean in, hissing, “No bloodshed. Not in this corner of Forsyth, and certainly not on goddamn fucking Christmas.” I look at the kid and slowly reach under my shirt. He tenses and the point digs deeper. “Woah, settle down. I know you’re scared, Corbin. You’re desperate for a hit. Paranoid, right? Feeling like your skin is about to eat you from the inside out. But most of all, you’re worried about your friend.” I fish out my laminated ID badge. “I can help you find him if he’s here, but not until you put the knife down.”
He drags his gaze from Tristian’s gun, down to my badge. His shoulders sag and the knife slips from his fingers, clattering to the floor.
I open my mouth to tell the others to move, but they’re already in motion. Mercer dives, jingling, for the knife, while Perilini reacts with a speed and ferocity that seems impossible for such a large man. Sy’s sparkly hat flies off as he slams Corbin to the ground.
Mercer looks on, impressed. “That’ll teach you to fuck with a two-hundred-and-fifty -pound elf,” he mutters.
“You lied!” Corbin cries, struggling against Sy’s weight. “You said you’d help me!”
“I am,” I tell him, taking out my phone. “Just not the way you want. You’re headed to the ER. The doctors and police can handle it from here.”
This hasn’t been the only glimpse of Scratch’s new supply chain issues. The whole city has felt the subtle shift in the air, tweakers growing desperate, other dealers scrambling to take advantage of it with higher and higher prices. Break-ins, thefts, robberies.
If John Doe ends up being who I think he is, then East End is playing host to its own ticking time bomb.
Looking around the destroyed room, I rub the spot on my chest. I can still feel the tip. One move and I’d be dead. So would he. Both Mercer and Perilini look exhausted as security drags the tweaker away, but I have questions.
“There’s a kid upstairs in the ICU burn unit. A John Doe. The police have a lot of questions.” I look between them. “Either of you know the answers?”
“No fucking clue,” Tristian says, adjusting his elf bootie.
“Nope,” Sy says, picking up his cap and pulling it over his head.
“You know, lying will get you put on the naughty list,” I say, but neither will meet my eye.
The door in the back opens and a head peeks out. One of Tristian’s sisters. “Can we come out now?”
He nods, even though he still seems strung tight. “Yeah. It’s safe.”
She rushes out, racing over to give him a hug. Her sister does the same, and a few moments later the room is spilling full of kids again.
“What a fucking disaster,” I mutter, looking around the room at the pieces of gingerbread crushed on the floor. Hot chocolate pooling on the wrinkled tablecloth. When Father finds out, he’s going to be displeased. Corbin doesn’t know it, but I just saved his life from a lot worse than Mercer or Perilini. He’d be in Father’s dungeon tonight if we’d had less witnesses.
I had one job, and I couldn’t even pull that off. I’m trying to figure out how to navigate explaining it to him when I feel a tug on my hand. Standing next to me is the little girl from before, the one wanting to talk to Santa.
“I remembered.”
“Remembered?” I ask, trying to gather my bearings. “Remembered what?”
“What my brother wanted for Christmas!” She beams.
Distracted, I struggle to reorient myself. “Oh, that’s great.”
“So is it still my turn?” she asks, as if we’re not in the middle of chaos.
“Uh.” Across the room, Santa is up on his throne, straightening his beard. “Yeah, I think so.”
Her hand slips into mine and she drags me impatiently across the room. I can’t help but notice Mercer and his sisters are busy salvaging what they can in the gingerbread area, and Perilini is busy mixing more hot chocolate. Adeline turns on the music, and in a blink, the party starts again.
I help the girl—Megan Sheffield—up to Santa, a wide smile on her face as she climbs in his lap.
“Hey, Ashby.”
I turn, and Perilini and Mercer are both there, styrofoam cups their hands. Brown liquid swirls inside and Sy hands me one. “You look like you could use a drink.”
I snort. “Jesus Christ, right?”
“Wait,” Mercer says. Reaching into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, he removes a flask, pouring clear liquid into his cup before handing it to Sy. He says, “Promise me that no one will tell my mother what happened today. I already bribed the girls.”
“With what?” Sy asks, adding a splash of liquor to his cup.
He sighs. “A puppy.”
Sy laughs. “Fuck, you’re so screwed.”
“Says the man with cat scratches all over his hands.”
“Obviously, I won the fight.” He frowns. “But while we’re talking about it, I’d rather Lav not know about this either.”
So that kid upstairs does mean something to West End, or at least the Duchess.
“Fine,” I take the flask from Perilini. “But if we’re keeping this quiet, I’d like to include my father. The less he knows the better.”
They both nod, my enemies and apparently occasional allies, and I lift my cup in symbolic agreement, offering a toast, “Merry fucking mayhem.”