Although, Rita is already aware of that.
It’s one of the reasons why she hates my fucking guts.
The other is because I’ve been screwing her precious brother for the past six months.
“Where is he?”
“I’m not Darrow’s keeper.” She sniffs, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve. Her son emits a loud wail, his lower lip trembling as he cries out. Poor kid is probably hungry, and judging by the bulky diaper he’s wearing, I’m guessing he needs changing too. He shivers, the cool night air swirling around his naked flesh. “Shut your mouth,” Rita snaps, glaring at the innocent child, and the baby cries louder.
Bile floods my mouth, and adrenaline charges through my veins. She’s such a lousy mother, and I don’t get it. Why is it that good couples, with the disposition and means to raise kids in a loving environment, struggle to conceive while this junkie gets knocked up without even trying? Where is the justice in that? My heart aches for that kid. What kind of future awaits him with a mother like that? I know Darrow has pulled her up on her shit before, but he’s rarely home, and it’s not like he can do much.
Grabbing a hundred-dollar bill from my purse, I thrust it at her. “I know you don’t like me, and I really don’t care. But I know you know where he is. Tell me, and it’s yours.”
Her scowl deepens, and I know she wants to tell me to screw off. But she needs the money more. She snatches it from my hand like a greedy shrew. “He’s partying at Galen Lennox’s place.”
Shit.
I arch a brow, waiting for her to elaborate, but her lips pinch closed. “And where is that?” I prompt, biting back a frustrated sigh. Bitch knows I’m from Lowell, the next town over. That I don’t attend Prestwick High with my boyfriend—her brother. And even though I have a suspicion where that asshole lives, I don’t have time to waste driving aimlessly around town if I’m wrong.
She thrusts her palm out, and I grind my teeth. If it wasn’t for the baby in her arms, I’d punch her in her heavily made-up face and demand an address. But she is holding her son, so I’m forced to play nice. I slap a twenty into her hand, daring her to challenge me with a deadly look. Mood I’m in, I’ll come back and pummel her ass to dust just for shits and giggles. We enter into a silent face-off, and I keep my eyes locked on hers, refusing to back down.
She folds first, bouncing the baby up and down as he continues to cry. “Forty-one Thornton Heights.”
She moves to shut the door in my face, but I plant my foot in the doorway, stopping her from closing it. “Don’t shove it all up your nose. Buy your son some clothes and formula. I’ll be mentioning this to Darrow.”
“Fuck off, slut. Mind your own goddamned business.” She kicks my foot away, and the door slams shut.
I head back to my car, plug the address in, and set off for Galen Lennox’s place.
I know who he is.
Everyone does.
Because The Sainthood is revered around these parts.
The organization is one of the oldest criminal enterprises in the US, with chapters in most states, but the gang started in Prestwick, and it’s the largest branch with the most power.
It’s split into two levels—junior and senior. The junior chapter controls the schools and teen drug supply and generally lays down the law among their peers until the members successfully pass initiation and “jump in.” Then they become members of the senior or main organization, and successors take over their crown at the junior level. Typically, the transition occurs once the members graduate high school.
All the local gangs are structured similarly, and regular crew wars are the norm. The Sainthood are known rivals of The Arrows, the crowd Darrow runs with, and I’m guessing Dar’s presence at this party is a way of pissing The Sainthood off. While Darrow has Prestwick High locked up tight, The Sainthood rules the hallways at Prestwick Academy, and they own the streets. The Arrows are small fry, and Dar despises The Sainthood because they have what he wants—control, respect, loyalty, and fear.
I could do without this tonight, but I need the distraction of sex and alcohol more, so I drive toward the nicer part of Prestwick where Galen Lennox lives.
Bile fills my mouth as I pull up in front of the familiar house. Cars, trucks, and bikes are parked haphazardly across the wide front lawn as I drive up the sweeping driveway. I pull into an empty space in front of the monstrous gray brick two-story building and kill the engine. Swiping the bottle of vodka from the passenger seat, I hop out and head toward the open front door.
Chills creep over my spine as I step foot into the gloomy hallway. A massive chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting dim light over the marble tile floor below. Mahogany stairs extend upward on either side of the lobby, the steps covered in a drab green carpet that has clearly seen better days. Cobwebs cling to the high ceilings and cornices, and a thin layer of dust obscures the pictures of ancestors covering the walls as I walk toward the sound of the thumping music.
My heels make a clacking sound as I walk through the depressive corridor decorated in dark wood panels and dull green and gold wallpaper. I remember how creeped out I was the first time I was here, but it’s worse now with the added obvious neglect. I pass a succession of tall, mahogany-stained doors, all closed with no sounds of life, so I continue toward the music.
Reaching the end of the hallway, I turn left and head straight for party central.
I step into the vast room, glancing at the vaulted ceilings adorned with expensive chandeliers and the myriad of windows draped in heavy ruby-red velvet curtains. A DJ spins tunes from an elevated dais at the end of the room, but other than that, the room is completely bare of furnishings. At one time, this was an ornately decorated ballroom, host to lavish parties that were the talk of the town, but it’s clear no one is looking after this place anymore.
A large crowd dances on worn hardwood floors while others sit in clusters on the ground at the edge of the room, talking, laughing, smoking, and drinking. I inhale the scent of weed as I walk through the space, keeping my eyes peeled for Darrow, but I don’t spot him or any of his crew.
Exiting the ballroom by the rear door, I head outside. Sounds of laughter filter through the air as I step around the outside of the property toward the back patio. My feet slam to a halt at the sight of the overgrown maze, and I allow my mind to wander back to that night. I was only a kid, which is why I didn’t recognize the address even if I remember every other detail of my last visit here.
I uncap the vodka, chugging it down my throat, welcoming the burn and latching on to it rather than letting the memory unfold.
I press on, my feet picking up pace as I round the bend and spot several of Darrow’s gang. A group of about twenty is lounging by the old pool, huddled around a makeshift bonfire, sprawled across garden chairs and loungers. The pool is empty now, save for the leaves and debris cloistered on the old blue-tiled floor.
I stop in front of the lounger Bryant Eccelston is lying on. Bryant is Darrow’s bestie and number two, and where one is the other is never far. A cute blonde is draped around his broad five-feet-eleven-inch frame. “Where is he?” I ask, drilling him with a look.
“Cute outfit.” Bryant smirks, taking a slow perusal of my body, his gaze lingering on my chest out of habit.
“Cut the crap, Bry. Where’s Darrow?”