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I stand out here like a good idea in congress.
I’m surprised I haven’t been arrested merely for walking in here yet.
Towering at least ten inches above everyone else, my full sleeve of black, morbid ink sticks out of my black tank top just as much as my unconventional haircut and muddy leather boots. Everybody around me is wearing pastel cardigans and sharp suits. There’s even an elderly man with suspenders and a bowtie.
But I don’t need to make friends with these assholes. I just need to use the ATM here, withdraw some money, go back home, give Prescott a ride and take off.
No. I can withdraw money somewhere else. Doesn’t have to be here, where I’m looked at like a circus freak.
I turn around and walk toward the automatic doors, my legs trying to buckle under the strain of working under the sun all day in Mrs. H’s garden.
My foot already touching the sidewalk, I hear the old man with the suspenders behind me, saying, “Why, look who it is! Howard Burlington-Smyth. Haven’t seen you here in a while.”
I spin back on instinct. I see the asshole approaching Bowtie gingerly, a small green basket tucked under his arm, looking sheepishly in all directions.
Hate. It froths within me, consuming every cell in my body. I hate him so much, it takes me long seconds to register what he looks like through the mist of disgust.
Howard Burlington-Smyth looks nothing like his daughter. She has blonde hair, pouty lips and a curvy body that was designed to be played with. Her father, on the other hand, is tall, fat and has dark brown hair, speckled with patches of silver.
I look down to his basket and see a simple loaf of bread, butter and some canned food. Then I remember what Mrs. Hathaway told me about him. Broke. Pea’s family is considered virtually penniless in these parts.
“How’ve you been?” Bowtie asks my captive’s father. But Howard continues wiping his sweaty forehead, looking left and right. His shapeless figure is clad in a cheap suite. He looks like a waiter at Olive Garden who just pissed into someone’s dish and is afraid to get caught. What the fuck is he so scared about? Maybe he senses the presence of someone who’d gladly nail his head to one of the decorative spikes in his iron gate.
“It’s going great.” Howard clears his throat. “My wife and I are looking into buying somewhere in the Hamptons. Get away from all the hustle and bustle around here.”
Liar. Prescott’s mom’s gone.
“Is that right? But aren’t your kids living around here?”
I watch Howard, maybe too intently. He waves his hand, his face plastered with an insincere grin.
“Preston is studying in Boston. . .”
Preston is fucking missing.
“And Prescott. . .well, God knows where that wild-child is these days. She never picks up the phone, you know. Kids.”
This much is true. God does know where she is. But in about an hour and a half, he’ll have no fucking clue.
A shot of fury runs from my throat down my arm, making my fist choke the wallet in my hand.
“She has always been a bit of a free spirit. Shame about her,” Bowtie tsks. Fuck you, old man.
“It is indeed, but we did what we could.” Yeah, like setting her up.
Loser dads are a touchy subject for me.
I killed mine for less than disowning me—oh, mine owned me, all right. So much so that he beat me up every time I said the wrong word or acted the wrong way.
I march straight to Burlington-Smyth and the man’s eyes widen in terror with every step I take. I love the way his face drains of blood as my shoulder brushes against his, and I feel his body tensing against mine. I continue moving slowly without looking back. This was a threat. I wanted him to shut up, and he did.
Nobody cares about Prescott Burlington-Smyth.
But that’s about to change.
The minute I get back home, I jump out of the car and head to the basement without even taking a shower, pulling on the Guy Fawkes mask Irv retrieved from the basement and adjusting it on my face as I descend the stairs.
I’ve never had a girlfriend. Before prison, I had sex. Booty calls. One-night stands in cars and bathroom stalls and national fucking parks on crisp nights. But I don’t know how to grovel. Never needed to before, and the only reason I need to now is because I want to switch teams.
I’m a switcher, after all.
I find Pea trying to tear the wood on the windows down, her movements listless and desperate at the same time. Blood runs down her arms, no doubt from her busted, nail-less fingers. Her head turns around at the sound of the squeaky door and that’s when I notice her eyes are nothing but swollen slits. Doubt she can see through them at all.
