As I race toward my best friend, I have the windows down and my hair in a tight bun to keep it from blowing in my face. Breaking Benjamin serenades me from the radio. The familiar smells of summer remind me why I couldn’t live anywhere but this cozy corner of Pennsylvania. I speed down the narrow road, shadowed by a canopy of trees. When it opens to farmland, it’s as if the war never happened. No bullets or fires or bombs. No tanks rolling down city streets. No soldiers to break up the battle as neighbor tried to kill neighbor. And for what? At this point, the reasons are all so muddied.
As if there could ever be a justification for the death and destruction that could have been prevented by conversation and compassion.
Behind me, the Appalachians scrape the cloudless sky. Each mile that takes me farther from Mayhem feels… lonelier. But whatever. I push the homesickness aside as I merge onto the meticulously tended highway, because heaven forbid the people driving on here see the disaster behind this manicured veneer. Take any exit, and what you’ll find are towns mired in misery since the end of the Second Civil War. Most won’t ever recover. Won’t ever return to what they had been before Americans acted like friggin’ toddlers and threw a giant tantrum. They destroyed this country, and those of us who came after, we’re all still cleaning up their mess—and will be for generations.
The cities that rose from the wreckage siphoned their restoration from the blood and sweat of the neighboring towns. Places like Brighton annihilated everything around them. They’re the reason gangs became a necessity. Someone had to stand up to the bullies and protect the little guys so the government couldn’t wipe them off the map.
The government or worse—bigger and badder criminal entities.
And that’s why, while I’m in Brighton, I plan to ask Kerri’s younger brother, Nate, if he knows about onyx. Not that I think he’s stupid enough to do the drug himself. But some of his idiot friends might be. They can, at the very least, point me in the right direction.
I take the next exit and weave down a winding, manicured road. Through a familiar, cozy town that leads to spacious neighborhoods lined with mansions hidden behind privacy walls. A gazillion security cameras watch my car as I travel down the immaculate streets policed by private security teams. In a lawless world, it takes more than the cops to maintain order, and although the Unholy are badass, so too are the legally armed guards who patrol these areas. The only difference is that law enforcement respects these men, whereas the Unholy are considered criminals.
It’s all about semantics, I guess.
As clean as Brighton is, that’s as filthy as it is behind the shiny façade.
I know because I glimpsed that dirty power while working for Davenport.
Rather than get dirty, too, I got clean by returning to the slums of Pennsylvania. To a town saturated in sin.
Go figure.
My stomach clenches as I drive through Lacy. It’s one of the more desirable sections of Brighton. My sister lives one neighborhood over, and as much as I want to drop by and see my nieces, they’re “summering” in Greece. Because it’s what Brianna does now. She “summers.” My mother, never one to pass up an opportunity to remind me I’m a failure, texted me photos of my sister’s vacation last night—because sure, why not. It’s exactly what I needed to fuel my temper. She sent an accompanying text letting me know it could have been Garrett and me in Greece if I hadn’t broken up with him.
As if I need a man to take me to Greece.
Rather than respectfully explain I can pay for my own goddamn vacation, I deleted her text and went to sleep.
The first glimpse of Hathaway House is always impressive. It’s a sprawling, stone masterpiece that’s been in Kerri’s family for ages, and when I pull up the wide, endless driveway, I park beside her white BMW. I’m only steps away from the front door when it flies open and out storms Kerri.
My friend is rarely frazzled. Currently, she’s a wreck as she comes barreling toward me. “We’re leaving.”
“Wait. What?” I jerk my thumb at my car. “Ijustdrove an hour to get here.”
“I don’t care.” She slings her pocketbook over her shoulder. Her usually tidy blonde hair is flying around her head. Her cheeks are flushed. The skirt of her dainty pink sundress flutters around her long, tanned legs. “Faith, if you walk in that house, we’re never leaving.”
“Really?” I cringe. “What’s going on?”
“My father and Marcus are arguing.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ve never heard them yell so loud at each other.”
Shocking. Harold Ward never raises his voice. I didn’t even think his vocal cords had the physical ability to allow him to speak above a loud whisper, but okay. If she says he’s yelling, I believe her, I guess. And he’s fighting with his partner?
Okay, that’s straight-up weird.
“Should I be worried about the apocalypse or something?”
“It’s crazy, right?” She hooks her arm through mine and steers me toward her car. “God, I’m glad you came. Come on. Everyone is waiting for us at Roadies.”
“Everyone?” I echo as I speed up my pace to keep up with her long strides. This sucks. I was hoping it would be just the two of us. “Wait, I need to talk to Nate before we go.”
She stops and pins me with those beautiful blue eyes. “Why?”
Kerri is aware of Nate’s friends. There’s no need to hide my intentions from her. Nor would I. The only secret I have from her is what happened between Daniel and me—which I have every intention of sharing with her. Just not yet. Because it never seems like the right moment to tell her.
“Someone from Brighton is sending onyx dealers to Mayhem. The president of the Unholy asked me to make discreet inquiries. Given Nate’s social circle, I thought he might know some people.”
I finish with a shrug and try not to wither under the weight of Kerri’s disapproval. Her jaw opens, and I want to suggest she snap it closed before a bug flies in her mouth.
