"You know what we want," I state. "All you have to do to stop this is give it to us."
The man shakes his head. "I don't—"
Never let him deny. The first thing my father taught me when dealing with traitors. Get their confession and then kill them. No chances to lie. No chances to grasp onto the sliver of their lives we owned and tear it back. Show nothing but complete lack of mercy. I slam my fist into his face and feel the breaking of cartilage against my knuckles. New blood pours freely from his nose where it only trickled from mine. The man whimpering in my fists had only managed to land one hit, but I can tell that that single hit has angered my father.
I’m doing everything right. I do not show hesitation. I pummel the man with my fists until sweat beads at my brow and slides down my face. I let blood coat my knuckles and stain my clothes. Yet, still, I can feel his disapproval radiating from across the room.
I don't have to look at him now to know that his arms are crossed over his chest and his dead gaze is piercing right through me.
"Please," the man gasps, his hands latching onto my shoulders as he tries to get his feet under him once more.
I kick his knee and send him sprawling. "Just say the words," I order.
He whimpers again as I grind my foot into his groin and press down. Hard.
"I'm sorry!" he bursts out, tears sliding from his eyes. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Okay? You want to hear me say it. I will! They offered me so much money. I c-couldn't … it wasn't because I'm not loyal. I am! I swear it! I’m working for you. I always work for you. They’re nothing. I’m doubling for you—I’ll bring you any information you want."
I look over my shoulder. Nicholas Carter nods once. There is nothing this man has that we want. Reaching back, I touch the cold metal of the gun strapped to the holster against my lower back. As soon as the man sees it, he scrambles back, looking from side to side as if anyone here can or even would help him. A part of me wants to look at Braxton and Abel—I want to know their reactions. But I don't. As soon as I do something like that, I know I won't be able to pull this off. I might enjoy a little bit of the violence. I might crave something to quell the rage inside me. But I don’t particularly want to see what they think of me as a killer.
This is what we were born for, I tell myself. The words are an echo of my father's. We live the lifestyle of the rich and powerful and we need to pay for it. This is our restitution. Lest we never forget that we are on top for a reason. Not to become the chaos but to rule and control it.
I step forward and put the gun to the man's forehead. His cries and pleas are like white noise in my ears. There are no clear words. No comprehendible anything. Just static. I take a breath and without another thought, I pull the trigger.
2
Avalon
14 years old…
The trailer smells like shit when I wake up. With mold in the walls and bugs crawling through the green carpet, it always does. I get up and change for school. Patricia’s soft snores filter out from the living room as I brush my teeth and hair and hurry through the morning routine. Some people look at me and assume I’d be like any other teenager, more than happy to play hooky or get out of doing homework. But not me. I don’t mind school. I’ll do just about anything to get out of this hellhole and away from her.
Patricia is like a broken doll. Her face cracked or caved in. Her skin marked with age and from too much sex and drugs. Mother or not, she's dead inside. A rotting corpse that just doesn't know how to fucking quit. I’ve never believed in God a day in my life, no matter what the religious freaks at school preach—and there’s always a horde of them down here in the South, well meaning churchgoers who want to save everyone—but sometimes, I pray that He’ll fucking send a lightning bolt, a hurricane, something to strike her down. It never happens, though.
Other kids got moms who at least tried. Sure, they failed. Maybe they were mean. Maybe they hit their kids, but at least they acknowledged they had one. Sometimes, I wonder if Patricia even remembers that she gave birth to another human being. It’s kind of difficult to reconcile the woman lying stretched out on our futon for a couch with her tits hanging out and stinking like last night’s puke and booze with the traditional idea of motherhood.
I stop just inside the main hull of the trailer, and the scent of vomit and dust collecting in front of me makes me wrinkle my nose in disgust. She obviously never made it back to her room when she stumbled in the night before. Her emaciated hand hangs over the edge of the futon, her fingers brushing against one of the many liquor bottles that litter the floor. A white filmy dust coats the old, scarred coffee table.
A scowl forms over my face. Where the hell had she gotten money for cocaine?
I march across the living room and kick her hand, not caring if it hurts or leaves a bruise. She’d do the same to me if our situations were reversed. Actually, she’d do worse. "Hey!” I lean down and snap my fingers in front of her face. "Wake up."
A low moan leaves her dry parted lips as her snoring stops and her eyelids crack open the scantest bit. "Avalon?"
My scowl deepens. "Get up. I've got to go to school."
She doesn't so much as wave her hand as she lifts it and lets it flop back down in a useless gesture. "So go."
I clench my fists and kick her hand again. "No," I growl. "You have to come to my school today. We have parent teacher conferences. I told you about it last week.” I don’t necessarily want her there, but neither do I want the school to look into why my mother hasn’t answered any calls or why she doesn’t show up for scheduled meetings like the one we have today. Because she’s too busy fucking around, being drunk off her ass, or high as hell.
She mumbles something under her breath that I can’t hear and turns away from me. "Well, I’m fucking tired,” she says loud enough for me to hear. “Maybe if someone had offered to help me out last night, I wouldn’t be so exhausted. But no, one of us has to keep a roof over our heads.” It’s clear who this someone is supposed to be.
I resist the urge to yank her up by her hair and punch her teeth in, but just barely. “I’m not gonna fuck your friends for money,” I say through clenched teeth.
She just shifts over. “You will eventually, Ava. Keep fighting it, but you were born to be like me.” Her words are callous, not because they’re said with any derision or intended meanness, but because they’re so final. As if the idea of me fucking some old, smelly man for drugs or money is merely inevitable.
“You’re a bitch,” I snap, turning away and stalking towards the front door. It's no fucking use. She isn't going to get up and she’s not coming to the conference.
Out of pure spite, I slam the screen door behind me and relish watching the faded crack that’s been there for ages grow just a bit longer. I hope the noise sounded like needles in her ears. The selfish bitch.
“Avalon, looking good, li’l runt.” Halfway down the concrete front steps, my whole body freezes at the unfortunately familiar voice.
I eye the man who’d spoken as he cracks the door to an older model Cadillac that I’ve seen far too many times and steps out. “What do you want?” I ask sharply, not really caring if I’m not showing him respect.