“Been better, Explorer.” Okay, we rarely call him Uncle Ford. Because calling him other shit is a lot more fun. And he started it! “But I’ve been worse. This is nothing.”
Mom herds us toward the house, not letting go of me the whole way.
“Luca gets to go to the shed already? Jeez, he just got here! Dad gets to go to the shed. Sully gets to go to the shed. Fordbasically lives in the shed. Ari gets to go to the shed… maybe one of these daysIwant to go to the shed,” Lil whines.
But she’s lying, and we all know it. Lil’s tough, but she’s not ‘take a walk into the shed’ tough. I’ve gone in a few times. My moral compass is a little more skewed than Lil’s… and definitely more than Mom’s… I might not find pleasure in some of the shit that goes on in that building, but honestly, as long as the people who need to die actually do in the end, I don’t give a fuck what Dad or Ford or Sully or… I guess now Luca does to them before they take their last breath. I prefer the simple quickness of a bullet to the head, but I also like my knives, even though maybe I’m not supposed to. Dad promised to save me a seat next to him in Hell if he gets there first.
I’ve always wondered if the afterlife is when Lil and I will finally be separated, but I’m not sure that girl’s getting into heaven, either. Maybe it makes me a bad person to hope she doesn’t. I don’t want to spend eternity without her.
Turning my head, my gaze collides with Luca’s as Mom tells Lil, “You can’t handle what happens in the shed.”
His eyebrow is raised, like he’s curious about me. Then I’m in the house and can’t see him anymore. Why do I suddenly feel sad, almost… empty? Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought.
We follow Mom into the dining room, where Doc is waiting with his medical bag on the table. Usually, he’s here to patch up one of the guys, and he’s always quick to give Lil and me a smile like he didn’t just have to dig a bullet out of someone’s shoulder or stitch up a knife wound. His smile is a lot less bright tonight, and his eyes are filled with concern when he sees me. The times he’s had to check on me or Lil have mostly been because I made the mistake of letting her drive a fucking car.
My mistake tonight was letting my guard down. I got lost in my own head with my backup too far away. I know better.
Doc runs through all his head wound protocols, and I say asilent ‘thank you’ to whatever gods might be listening when he says I don’t have a concussion because they suck ass. With an ice pack on my aching hand, Lil sits next to me. She wraps the locket around my wrist before linking her pinky with mine while Doc cleans my wounds and stitches them up more carefully than he ever does for the guys, trying to minimize scarring. I appreciate the thought, but what’s a couple more?
“This lip will probably take twice as long to heal as it should,” Doc warns me.
“Why?” I arch an eyebrow at him.
“Because your mouth needs to stay closed for that to happen.” He winks. Lil giggles. I huff and glare at them both. But he has a point. I tend to talk a lot. Even more than Lil, which is saying something.
After promising to take it easy for a couple of days, I choke down the pain meds he gives me even though I don’t want to. I hate how that shit makes me feel and would rather take a couple of shots of vodka or eat an edible, but in the interest of following Doc’s orders, I suck it up and swallow the pills.
In the shower, I turn the water up as hot as I can stand it, hoping it helps wash away the memory of some creeper’s hard dick pressed against me. I’m still mad at myself for letting him get the jump on me. And I’m trying to ignore that Lil’s hot cousin makes me feel things and looks at me like I could be his everything. I’m never going to be anyone’s everything. I’m too fucked up. Too damaged. Too codependent.
After putting on my favorite yoga pants and a t-shirt that says, ‘Books are better than people,’ I head back downstairs to the kitchen. I want to drown my sorrows in ice cream since I can’t drown them in the liquor we have hidden in Lil’s closet. I don’t mix pills and booze. Some mistakes you only make once.
Chapter 7
There really is a first time for everything
Luca
As I follow Ford to the far end of the property, I can’t help but wonder what would have brought Ariana to the shed. I know the kinds of stuff that must happen there. It’s no secret that the Vegas DeVilles are involved in a lot of illicit shit. Mom’s always talked about it in hushed tones and with a shaking head. She’s pretty judgmental about it all, considering she wants to reap whatever benefits she can from Marco’s dealings. Our last name opens a lot of doors back home, but I imagine it opens a lot more here.
None of Marco’s business has ever bothered me, though. I probably should have come here to learn from him a couple of years ago. I didn’t realize it was even a possibility until Dad brought it up as the only way out of a law degree and a fucking arranged marriage. Who even does that anymore? I shudder to think of who my mom would pick for me to marry. Probably someone cold and humorless like her.
Someone the exact opposite of Ariana. I’ve known her for allof half a second but it’s long enough to see that she’s full of sass and fire.
We walk into the shed, which is a lot bigger than any ‘shed’ I’ve ever seen. The man who attacked Ariana is sitting in a chair, his arms and legs bound to it. I’m not sure what Marco’s plans are for me here yet, but right now, I’m focused on what his plans are for the dumb fuck whining about being shot in the dick. A set of tools is spread out on a table against the wall, and Marco’s looking at them thoughtfully, trying to decide which one he wants to use.
“Luca, good of you to join us,” he says without turning to me. “Take a few wrong turns on the way?”
I grunt in reply, thinking maybe now is not the best time to bring up Lil’s shitty navigation skills.
Ford rolls up his sleeves, grinning like a madman.
Marco picks up a hammer. “The walls are soundproof. Let’s have a little fun with this asshole who thought he could put his hands on my daughter, huh?”
“I didn’t know! I didn’t know she was a DeVille!” The smell of piss fills the air.
“You should treat all women like they’re DeVilles, asshat,” Ford says, his smile somehow widening even more as he heads for the table.
An hour later, I’m scrubbing my hands in the sink in the back of the building, wondering if I should be horrified by what I just did and saw—or horrified by the fact that I’m not horrified. Marco walks over, holding a clean shirt out to me. Mine got a little… messy.
