“Fucker’s too much of a pussy to say it to my face.” Petrov sneers, venom lacing his tone.
Novotny looks me dead in the eye. “He beat the fuck out of Jackson. We found him passed out on the floor in the locker room. “
“Pull over!” My hand covers my mouth. “Now!”
The SUV barely comes to a stop before I fling the door open and puke.
No. No. No.
Of all the reasons I thought Jackson didn’t answer me, this wasn’t one of them. I empty my stomach once more, then wipe my mouth, fighting back the tears. “Where is he?”
“Stonybrook.” Novotny claps a hand on my shoulder. “But we have something to take care of right now, so pull it the fuck together.”
I straighten to my full height. “No, we need to go to—”
“After. Right now, there’s a more pressing issue.” His ice blue eyes narrow. “Or was Jackson just for funsies?”
I step into his space, then fist his shirt. “Say something stupid like that again and I’ll throw your ass right into oncoming traffic.”
He laughs, the sound disturbingly musical. “Then get in and stop making us late.”
Releasing his shirt, I get back in, and we pull back onto the highway.
About forty-five minutes later, we roll into the parking lot of Sunset Harbor Marina. Petrov drives to the end, and we walk to a slip where a sixty-nine-foot Galeon is docked. Walsh and Knight are on board along with Mr. Reed.
Why are they on the South Shore?
Jackson’s father gives me a curt nod as I board, then heads up a flight of stairs to the second deck. A few minutes later, boat pulls out.
“Anyone care to tell me what we’re doing?”
The four of them look at me as if I should know, but all I can think about right now is Jackson, and the fact his father is here with us, so this must be important.
“Our former stupid cunt of a coach is inside. He’s about to meet his maker.” Walsh takes a sip of whatever’s in his tumbler. “And since you’re Jackson’s boyfriend we figured you’d want in.”
“I’m in.”
Knight sits next to Walsh in the huge U-shaped dinette area, his own drink in hand. He swirls the glass, then looks out at the horizon as if he’s just on a cruise instead of about to commit murder.
Petrov and Novotny disappear to the bar, talking in Russian as they walk away. Great so now it’s me, the psycho, and the ruthless snob. Outside of Jackson—and hockey—none of us have a thing in common.
“Is he okay?”
“He’ll live,” Walsh says with no emotion, almost as a matter of fact. He looks me up and down, as if assessing me, or scanning me. Like, is he a real person or some advanced robot these rich fucks might have access to? “You just going to stand there like a dumbass?”
“Fuck off.”
Knight gulps down his drink and sets the tumbler down. “You two are boring me, but he’s right, Killian. It’s not a quick ride. Might as well take a seat. We don’t . . . Yeah, we totally bite. But we kicked your ass right out of the playoffs, so we’re cool for tonight.”
“Gee, thanks.”
When the water gets a bit choppy, I do finally sit but on one of the stools near the large aft galley. Restless energy courses through me. This guy is on the boat. He hurt Jackson. Enough that Mr. Reed is even partaking in whatever is about to happen.
The knot in my stomach grows. It has to be bad.
About thirty minutes later the Galeon slows down. Another smaller boat is in front of us. The people on board wave, then appear to start tidying up. Someone empties a pail into the water and I spot a fin.
Chum.
