My mother hasn’t touched any of the money in my accounts, and as long as I graduate—which I will, considering my father is the dean—I’ll get the rest of it. Money won’t be an issue for me and Sailor. I also know she has her own money, not that I would ever allow her to spend that on me or anything we need, but at least it’s there.
I do think my mother is afraid to do anything that’ll flag her location, so allowing me to keep my money and live my life is her punishment for being a fucking cunt. I hope she cries herself to sleep about it every night, pissed off that my life is exactly—well, almost—how I want it while she’s wallowing in misery, begging for people to be on her side and staying in hiding while living in poverty.
The room on the far end of the one-story building has a crooked number nine on the door, and I knock twice. It’s pulled open a moment later, the stale stench of cigarettes and body sweat assault my nose, and I hold back a gag as I walk in.
“You really could pick a better place,” I mutter as I look around the room.
The walls are covered in thick gunk from years of smoke, the bed sheets are a vomit orange with too many holes in them, and there’s a large stain on the carpet by the bathroom that may or may not be blood. It’s a fucking biohazard in here.
“Sit,” Vincent says, pointing to the wooden chair beside the dresser.
I purse my lips, giving it a once-over before looking back at Vincent. “No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
He sits on the end of the bed across from the chair, the mattress squeaking and groaning beneath his weight. He’s a big guy, lots of muscles and tattoos with a shaved head. The kind of guy people stare at as he walks outside because they’re sure he’s gone to prison and will likely go back.
They’d be wrong. His record is cleaner than mine, though he certainly has done a lot more shit than me, he just knows better people so he doesn’t get caught, the lucky bastard.
Not that I have to worry about shit like that, because I don’t, but still… There are some perks to the lifestyle that would be convenient. However, once I get Sailor back, I won’t have to worry about any of that shit because I’ve made up my mind—we’re getting far away from here.
“So what brings me to this STD-infested motel?” I question, crossing my arms.
“We’ve got a problem.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” I say. “You have a problem, Vincent, and I’m tired of you trying to bring me into it. I told you I don’t want any part of this shit.”
“Well, this time itisyour problem.”
I raise a brow, wanting to hear him out so I can tell him to fuck off. Nothing to do with the organization is my fucking problem.
“There’s been some talk,” he comments. “Not much yet, but you know how it starts. First it’s little, then it spreads like herpes.”
“Or it goes away entirely.”
Smirking, he gives a slight shake of his head. “You know that’s bullshit.”
Running a hand through my hair and letting out an annoyed sigh, I drop into the chair.
“What the fuck is it now?”
“People think you’re working with your mother.”
“I’m not,” I growl.
“Right, but the fact you aren’t part of this, tells them otherwise.”
“So it’s ‘you’re with us or against us?’”
“Basically, yeah.”
“And why don’t you tell them to fuck off?” I say through gritted teeth. “Don’t act like you don’t have that power.”
He gives a shrug of his shoulder. “I suppose I do, however, in my experience—”
“You’ve been doing this for two months.”
“It’s best to listen to the people, agree with them, do what you need to get them to change their minds rather than argue with them with words.”
