Chapter 1
Sorry, Dad
Ariana
Despite my best efforts to be on time, the previews have already started when Lil and I walk into the theater.
Fuck.
With a smirk, she holds out her hand. “Told ya.”
“Yeah, yeah. Fuck you.” I unwrap the chain from around my wrist while glaring at the sparkly flats on my feet. Those bastards are why we’re late, making me have to give up the locket again. Well, the left one is, anyway. It was hiding under a pile of dirty socks, and Ihadto wear these shoes tonight. But they’re a pair, so the blame falls on them both. Kind of like me and Lil.
Once I’ve placed the heart in her palm with a sigh, I peek around the wall at the seats, but there’s not a single person in the audience. Should have bet on that one. I’d be getting the damn locket back already.
Lil pokes her head around the corner next to mine. “Ooooo, empty. Just the way we like it.”
“Yep. Let’s go.”
Lil pulls a fabric bag out of her mini backpack and shakes itopen. We shove our purses into it, followed by our phones, smartwatches, and almost all our jewelry. Dad puts trackers in all that shit.
I leave my piercings as they are. That stuff is all from the tattoo shop or online, and Dad’s never bothered trying to keep up with how often I add new holes to my body. That’s a full-time job, and he’s a busy man.
Everything else goes in the bag just in case: the locket, the friendship bracelets we started collecting long before going to every possible stop on Taylor’s Eras Tour, Lil’s favorite ring…even the necklaces we’ve been wearing lately. They’re just thin discs I hammered ‘fuck off’ into a few months ago when I came across a metal stamping kit on Amazon in the middle of the night. By noon the next day, I had about a thousand dollars in supplies delivered to the front gate. I made a lot of shit in the three weeks it held my attention. I’m pretty sure Dad hasn’t put trackers in them, but not sure enough to risk it.
I’m grateful for those trackers most of the time. Like 79% of the time. Maybe. I bet Lil could figure out an exact percentage.There’s probably some weird math shit to calculate it.
When you’re basically a mob boss, you put trackers in all the things. Dad might not be as corrupt as most assholes who run shit, both legally and illegally, but he’s definitely involved in some shady, underground stuff, and he’s made his fair share of enemies. Since his family means more to him than anything else in the world, he’ll do whatever he can to protect us. All of us. My lack of DeVille blood doesn’t mean shit to him. Mom, Lil, and I are always his top priorities.
As kids, Lil and I promised him we would wear at least one thing with a tracker in it at all times. Plus, take our phones with us. And drive one of our family cars instead of using any kind of ride-share app. He really hates those ride-share apps.
We follow those rules almost all the time. A lot of the time, at least. Well, we try to. But we need a teeny bit of reckless freedom sometimes.
I stash our shit behind the extra trash bags in the cabinet above the garbage can as Lil pockets the burner phone no one knows about. The phone is all we take, besides a gun for each of us because we’re mother fucking DeVilles. Always assume a DeVille is packing.
I fucked up the lock on the back exit of this theater last year. It doesn’t latch correctly if you don’t want it to. And I don’t want it to tonight.
Giggling as we make our escape, we walk with our arms linked for a block. No one ever messes with the piece of crap car we leave parked here.
I dig the key out of the rear bumper and climb into the driver’s seat. Lil’s already thumbing through the collection of mixtapes that came with the car as if she’s not going to pick the same one we always do. There is no better mixtape than ‘Fun 80s Shit,’ even if the name’s not great. It has “Manic Monday,” “Girls Just Want To Have Fun,” “Closer to Fine,” “Love Shack,” “Purple Rain,” and “Black Velvet” on it. And that’s only side A.
It takes a couple of tries to get the engine to turn over, and something squeals like a motherfucker when I pull away from the curb. But I don’t need it to sound pretty.
With our fancy little SUV parked in the lot at the theater, no one realizes we’ve ditched out. If Dad checks the trackers or if he sends some of the guys to drive by, all signs point to us being inside watching a rom-com. Action movies are harder to sneak out of because we really like to watch them and get distracted by the explosions. We love explosions.
It’s only a ten-minute drive to our hiding spot. I pull onto the forgotten path that leads to the backside of a piece of land Dad owns. Rumor has it he bought it solely to piss off an old buddy. I don’t care why he owns it as long as he keeps forgetting about it.
I can’t help but grin when we pull up to the little cave in the rock, and the headlights shine on the hot piece of tailpipe inside. “Hello, Bruce, baby. Ready to go for a drive?”
Lil fishes the key out from under all the candy wrappers in the glove box. I could lie and say the wrappers are there to hide the key, but we just like candy. A few minutes later, the shitty car is in the cave, and we’re racing toward the road in something a lot faster. With our burner phone logged into a music streaming service we don’t use anywhere else through an email account Dad’s tech guy hasn’t found yet, the radio thumps out the first beats of “Getaway Car” because we think it’s funny. A rush of dopamine fills me as I press my foot to the gas pedal.
Nothing beats this feeling.
Chapter 2
This fucking blows
Luca
