“You know,” she says. “We probably shouldn’t be seen out partying. Not with what’s happening back there. His family,” she adds, her face clouding. “You and I should keep things low.”
The logic’s on target, but I don’t like it. Her hand’s on my side as she talks, and that I do like.
“So your hand on him? That’s on the down low?” Trick asks.
“Shit,” she says, pulling away. “Can’t believe I did that.” She blows strands of hair from her eyes. The club’s humidity and an overheated buzz seem to be weighing it down. Now, in addition to being beautiful, she’s adorable.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
My gaze scans the room, keeping watch. Then I level my stare on her again. I take her hand and put it back on me, pressing it against my ribs, a few inches south of my heart. “Fuck being sorry. You do whatever you want.”
Trick flashes a grin and shrugs his brows at her. “If trouble’s coming, let it come.”
I glance his way. Those words are ones I’ve said to C and Trick more than once when fire was about to rain down on us. But when I said them, my tone was resolute, but grim. With Trick it’s something else, almost like he relishes it, like trouble’s something that’s been missing from his life and he’s welcoming it back. I don’t understand him, not that I really try to. When he wanted to join up with us a long time ago, he talked to C and C made the call.
I remember C saying, “There’s a freshman who takes calculus with the seniors. He wants to hang with us. Let’s let him. I think we can use him. Last name’s Patrick.”
I’d nodded.
Then C had added, “I hear he screwed the quarterback’s girl and that Jones and his boys are looking to get even. Let’s squash that.”
“The kid might want to hang with us because he’s looking for protection from Jones,” I’d said.
“Maybe. But let’s see what he does. There’s something to him. I think we can use him.”
So we’d blocked Jones’s revenge, but that was only the beginning of the older guys who wanted to pound Trick to a pulp. Trick, with his male model looks and effortless magnetism, went on to screw a lot of girls who were supposed to belong to other guys. To his credit, he never looked to us or to anyone for protection.
At one point, C told him to knock it off. That we had better things to do than get into fights with jealous seniors.
Trick had been surprised, asking, “Why would you fight them?”
“Because we’re a crue. We have to have your back.”
“If we’re working something together, sure,” Trick had said.
“No. All the time.”
Trick had studied us for a moment and then nodded, understanding dawning.
“Just pick a girl,” C had said. “Hell, you got with Bailey. She’s fucking model material. Keep her.”
Trick had shook his head. “Too vanilla.”
C’s gaze had slid to me and then back to Trick. “What are you looking for?”
“No one I’ve been with.”
“That wasn’t the question,” C said.
Trick had cocked his head. “Someone who acts sweet, but who’ll let me do dirty things to her that she can’t control.”
“For some things, it’s easier to pay to play,” C said. “Memberships in certain clubs. Nights with certain women who know the score.”
“Then let’s make some money, so I can afford to buy what I want.”
I’d known then that the kid was not a kid. He was a year and half younger than us and hadn’t yet had to kill to survive—that we knew of—but that didn’t make him innocent. In fact, he was like us in more ways than we’d known. And it wasn’t long before he was the one leading the way down the dark corridors. And when it came time to kill or be killed, he didn’t hesitate or even flinch that I ever saw.
Rachel’s hand slides down to mine and her thumb brushes over my knuckles. All my focus narrows to her again. This is the new reality. Her with me, and me in the thick of my crue. It’s better than I ever hoped for.
