I’d practiced breaking and entering dozens of times at that point. Trained extensively with my father and his mates, before his death. Even so, I knew deep down that I wasn’t prepared.
But I was fueled by anger. Broken and bleeding from the loss of the most important person in my life, and so I let my emotions cloud my judgment.
Didn’t think about how getting caught would affect my family—at that point, my only family was Alistair, and he was just a political science major. I had a modeling job that I’d secured a few years earlier, mostly print work for national corporations and sponsorships, that gave me a certain level of fame on the island and something to do when I wasn’t committing crimes.
We were nobodies, though, in the grand scheme of things. I certainly hadn’t realized my getting caught would change that.
But it did.
Now, over a decade later, I’m wondering what might have happened had I not been so hasty in my need for revenge. If I’d waited for the right time to strike. Maybe there’d be no Primrose empire today, operating as if they don’t have more blood on their hands than I do.
I still don’t know what went wrong, and I think that’s what bothers me most.
My failure.
The lights on the front lawn flicker on, and I take that as my cue to leave. No sense in continuing the war now, when brunch shall be far more interesting.
Again, I consider going to the beach house. Even get to the fork in the road and sit with my blinker on, knowing a good fiancé would be home with his woman more.
Luckily, I’m not the real deal.
Sighing as I pull away from the turn and start back up the road, I wonder why that doesn’t absolve me as much as it should.
Parking in a paid lot a couple blocks from downtown, I get out and walk the cobblestone streets, looking into dim storefronts as I pass, ignoring the crazed reflection looking back. Hardly anyone is out this time of night, but the buildings remain lit, as if that’s truly an effective security measure.
If darkness wants in, it’ll find a way.
A newspaper stand on one stoplight corner catches my eye, and I pause, picking it up and scanning the front page.
Wild Socialite Settles Down with Outlaw: Aplana’s Very Own Romeo and Juliet.
I scoff, tossing the paper back into the stand. The journalist is grasping at literary straws, unaware that ours is a tale as old as time itself.
Lenny isn’t a Shakespearean blank verse; she’s a Greek tragedy waiting to happen.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
Wandering until my feet begin to cramp, I end up in front of an old mattress store across from a petrol station. The place is boarded up, even though I’m well aware of the activity inside.
Aplana isn’t known for much, but their network of underground criminals is extensive, and growing each day.
My father had a direct hand in that growth.
Eventually, so did Thomas Primrose.
Just like he had a hand in my father’s death.
Still, he wasn’t the only one. At the top of the list is a man who frequents the prostitution ring being run out of the basement, and call it a gut feeling, but I know before I even step inside that he’s here tonight.
My fingers find the knuckle-dusters in my pocket, slipping through the holes and making a fist. I pull my hand out, turning the metal piece to admire the Wolfe family brands accenting the top.
When I beat him to a bloody pulp, I’ll leave the imprint as a message for whoever comes to retrieve his body, letting them know I’m nowhere near finished.
16
I’d like to think I’m cool under pressure. That the years I’ve spent in the direct spotlight, learning every trick to appearing unaffected and aloof in public, have eroded the nervous energy that plagues the human condition.
I’d be wrong, but I’d like to think that.
Instead, as I stand in line at a thrift shop waiting to pay, all I can think about is the million other things I’d rather be doing. Painting the sun as it stretches high in the blue sky. Eating the block of gouda cheese in the fridge at the beach house until it makes me sick, because even that would be better than existing under a microscope.
The people in the store don’t speak to me, but they watch. Like they somehow think it’s better to speculate than it is to just come right out and say what they’re thinking.
When I get to the front, the cashier’s eyes widen as I drop the armload of items on the counter. “Retail therapy?”
I give her a half smile. “How’d you guess?”
Swinging her blonde ponytail from side to side, she holds up a rose quartz, swan-shaped pencil holder and a pair of fuzzy socks with the original tags still on. “All about the combinations. You definitely didn’t come in here with a list, but you’re leaving satisfied anyway.”
As she starts ringing me up, I chew on my lip, trying not to think about her comment. The total climbs as she bags items, but the usual rush never really comes.
It tries, but stalls out on the ascent, like a roller coaster whose hydraulics are shot and can’t make it up the first hill.
Glancing out the front window of the store, I see a swatch of curly dark hair. Jonas stops just outside, toying with the bracelet on his wrist, oblivious to the people who pass him.
Their reactions are mostly twofold; the most common is the initial notice of the very tall, devastatingly handsome man standing on the sidewalk. Then recognition, and either the gawking intensifies, or the decision to create a wide berth is born.
Most people move to the other side of the street, as if they’re afraid the man might accost them unprompted.
My stomach knots as I stare at the numbers on the register. I can almost feel Jonas’s attention shift inside, his focus making my entire body heat up.
“…rejected Preston so she could run off and elope with that freak.”
A whisper reaches my ears, and I look to my right before I have a chance to pretend I didn’t hear it.
Two girls, probably not much older than me, stand at a clothing rack near the dressing rooms, sifting through hangers. They aren’t even looking at me as they discuss my life, as if my presence is completely inconsequential to them.
I’m entertainment.
Not human.
“Can’t believe she’d throw away such a bright future,” the one in a turquoise tank top says.
Bright future. I smother an eye roll. Living beneath the authoritarian rule of someone else doesn’t leave much room for interests, let alone a future in which I would ever be happy.
The one with bronzed skin and braids snickers. “Well, she made her way through the men in her circle.”
“True. Plus, have you seen Jonas Wolfe lately? I guess I’d be slumming it up, too.”
Sucking in a deep, sudden breath, I remind myself that they don’t know.
People judge what they can’t understand.
Running a hand through my hair, I twist the ends around my fist while the beeping from the scanner gets louder.
At least, I think it gets louder. Blood rushes between my ears, embarrassment hot and thick as it washes over me, dulling my other senses.
I don’t even need any of the things I’m buying. Don’t really have room for them at Jonas’s house. Shopping was just always the easier urge to indulge, because it was one Mama understood well.