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The line crackled, cutting off the music. “You have ten minutes.”
I waited for the additional click as the operator connected me to a line in Wallstreet’s cellblock.
“Kill, my boy. You got my message, then?”
I still hadn’t figured out how he managed to send text messages in his predicament, but he did. On a regular basis. “Yep. Received and noted. It’s going down in two days.”
Top rule when speaking on prison lines. No details. Ever.
“Good, good. I thought as much. At least I’ll have something to celebrate when I get out of here.”
My hand tightened. “You heard back?”
“Sure did.”
When he didn’t elaborate, I pressed, “And?”
He laughed, sounding twenty years younger and fucking spritely. “I’m done, Kill. Served my time, paid my price. I’m gonna be a free man again.”
“Fucking hell.” I stared ahead, reliving those days when I first came out. The fear of open spaces, the constant questions of “Can I go there? Who do I need to check with to make sure I’m allowed? What’s my curfew?” Even breaking the habit of going to bed and getting up—set by the warden’s hateful alarm clocks—took time. “Shit, Wallstreet, that’s fantastic.”
“They’re letting me go early due to good behavior and proof of conforming to the necessary requirements of a rehabilitated criminal.”
I knew for a fact that was the truth. He hadn’t had to bribe anyone. He was an exemplary prisoner. I had no doubt the warden would’ve kept him forever if possible—just for the respect and peace he wielded. J Block would never be as calm the day he left; I was fucking sure of it.
“Do you have a date?”
“Not yet. The sentencing was just confirmed yesterday. Paperwork and all that jazz is always a holdup, but I’ll let you know when to pick me up.”
My heart raced to think of him coming home. This man had done so much for me. Made me who I was. Built me up when I was down and all that fucking sob-story bullshit.
I made a mental note to throw him the best damn party he’d ever seen.
“I’ll be there, Cyrus. You can count on it.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cleo
I’d gone to a high school dance last night.
I’d attended with a boy I didn’t like.
Arthur had refused to take me. My mom said he wouldn’t have been allowed anyway. He was too old for me. But what did they know? He wasn’t too old. How many times did I need to tell them that he was the boy I’d end up marrying?
I knew what I was and I was happy with that. And I’d be ecstatic when Arthur finally understood that our future wasn’t with others but together. His family, my family—they didn’t count. He was my family. —Cleo, diary entry, age thirteen
Two worlds.
Two identities.
When Arthur disappeared to deal with Club business, I’d fretted. When he said he’d be back before dinner but never showed, I’d panicked. And when a mysterious package arrived with instructions, I’d freaked.
I never expected this.
I never expected Arthur to be such a master juggler with so many moving parts flying unseen above my head or to be left so far behind. Sure, he’d always been a planner, crossing t’s and dotting i’s, but to this extent … I would never have guessed.
My heart fell thinking how much had changed since we’d matured into adults and formed our own existences.
I just have to trust that he’ll tell me when he’s ready.
My eyes focused as I shoved aside my thoughts and concentrated on the now.
The gloom welcomed me and I turned to face the man who held my heart.
“Arthur … where on earth have you brought me?”
He grinned, wrapped in shadow in the expensive limousine’s interior. His teeth were white, his face rugged and handsome. “You wanted to know—I’m showing you.”
I blinked, trying to make sense of everything that’d happened today. My mind skipped backward, reliving up to this moment.
The package.
It all started with the package that’d arrived a few hours after Arthur had left.
“Yours, I believe.” A Pure Corruption brother stood on the stoop, holding out a large box. Dressed in his uniform of jeans and cut, he looked the part of a biker but seemed too baby-faced to be dangerous. However, his nickname Switchblade said he wasn’t exactly as cherub-like as his features suggested. “Deliveryman just left. I signed on your behalf.”
“Uh, thanks.” Taking the package, I closed the door and scurried up the stairs to open it. What on earth was going on? Where the hell was Arthur?
As I sat on the bed and stroked the black silk ribbon wrapped around the large white box, I suddenly felt as if Arthur were beside me—an apparition waiting for me to open the mysterious parcel.
Slowly, I undid the bow and cracked open the lid.
Inside was a simple note.
For you. For tonight.
My heart skipped, trying to keep up. I’d made a mistake believing I knew everything there was to know about Arthur. I knew the boy, but not the man. And I’d forgotten one very important thing: Arthur was a planner. An arranger. He never stopped orchestrating or plotting.
I can’t believe I forgot that.
And this was a prime example how his body might be in my arms, his heart might be nestled snugly beside mine, but his mind … that was off busily constructing world domination.
