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“You all speak that weird movie language,” I reason, hurling a finger at the three culprits. “It’s an unfair advantage.”
“That’s fucking valid,” Gage murmurs, arms crossed over his massive chest.
“You’d think Ivy being an artist would be the concern,” Celeste argues as she hides her amusement behind her Gatorade.
My clever girl. She enjoys instigating, just like me.
“Nah.” I kick my feet out, stretch my arm behind Celeste, and relax my stance. “You don’t need to draw well for the game. It’s all about reading people.”
Ivy’s face pinks, an enraged grimace seizing her lips. “You’re not going to derail me with this Pictionary shit, Liam. I can read all of you, so whomever I choose will be on the winning team.” She puffs a rogue ginger lock out of her face and pins us all with a battle-ready glower. “What the hell is going on with Carver Homes and the Skulls? And why the fuck wasn’t I told?”
Shit. Celeste stiffens beside me, so I massage her shoulder but watch the show to see where this takes us.
“Ivanna,” Wells growls, “you were—”
Ivy fists her hair while cutting him off. “If you are even considering finishing that sentence with me being pregnant, Gavin, I am going to lose it.”
He grunts through his declaration, “I made an executive decision for the protection of my family,” while filling a plate with fruit and cheese and pushing it into Ivy’s hands. So, he’s the ambassador of our cozy setting.
“Bullshit,” she snipes, shoving the snacks back at him with enough oomph that some berries flee the scene. “How long?”
Exchanging the plate for a glass of water for her, he grits out, “July,” accepting that his Little Storm is about to mow us all over. Even the Chief knows when to surrender.
“July,” Celeste mutters beside me before strengthening her tone. Her rage is far more controlled, but I’m guessing just as lethal. “I’d like to know what’s going on. Since it’s my family we’re talking about. Is my father in danger?”
I grip her thigh, bracing myself for the fallout. “Right now, they seem to be focused on you.”
“What?” she croaks while Ivy clenches her fists and spits out, “I fucking knew it.”
Remaining calm, I convey the honesty they both need even though I know it’s a dose of terror they’ll have to choke down. “Filmore was linked to the Skulls, which is an underground group that is bad news. He intended to hand you over.”
“Why me?” Celeste’s voice quavers, her drink vibrating in her hand until she abandons it. “What do they want?”
I palm the back of her head, keeping my other hand on her tense, shaky thigh. “It looks like you’re leverage to get what they’re really after.”
“Which is?” she pants, her brown eyes swirling with wariness, even as she maintains the poise she carries so naturally.
“We don’t know,” Wells admits. “But we think it could be some sort of black book of information.”
Her eyes float back to me, her jaw rigid. “That’s why you asked me about that after you did whatever you did to those guys.”
I wish I could get inside her head. Is she scared? Pissed? Disgusted by how we handle those who cross us? None of that makes a difference regarding her future. She’s in too deep. But I’d like to address it.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s why I asked you all those questions.”
We go on to explain it all. Well, almost all. I don’t get into Easton being alive because I think that will be too much for her to handle at once. I’ll tell her eventually, but until we know why he let Ben die and how he’s involved now, it will only serve to muddy the waters of this already-murky situation. We do tell her about the threats to Carver Homes I found last July, the break-in to her parents’ home last October, and the plan Filmore was in on to take her. I even explain some of the strange relations we’ve unveiled.
We feel confident that Oliver Jensen—the presidential candidate—is the one who issued the order to Scott Filmore to take Celeste, albeit in a tangled method. It’s doubtful it was a direct order. Nothing concrete has been linked between them as far as an exchange of favors, but Filmore’s father is well acquainted with Jensen. I’ll be happy when those two are shark food, like that other piece of shit. Fragments of the helicopter surfaced a few days after the attack, solidifying the media’s theory that Filmore crashed into the Gulf. I hope his father and Jensen are quaking with the realization of what really occurred.
We’re coming for you, assholes.
It’s not a leap, connecting Jensen. Turns out, his campaign manager’s estranged uncle is involved in some shady shit. We’re fairly certain he’s a member of the Skulls. It’s all conjecture at this point, but we’re getting there. Add in Jensen’s relation to the Lancasters, Easton faking his death, and Pruitt just happening to run into Celeste at La Lune Noire, and it’s no leap at all. Regardless, with the girls, we omit the tidbits about the Lancaster assholes.
“Holy shit,” Ivy hisses. “You need to name Lettie as an untouchable and get the word out.”
Bile lines my throat. This is one of the impossible choices wrecking me. “I intend to, but it warrants everyone weighing in on the timing.”
Ivy pops off the couch, hurling her arms out wide—the fighting Irish, fully ready to duke it out with any one of us for Celeste, and I fucking love her for it. “What’s to weigh in on? Do it now.”
