I stand and smash my foot into his head, sending blood flying from his mouth like he did to King. “How pathetic do you have to be to bring a weapon to a fistfight? And you’re a goddamn liar because I know you wanted Beaumont dead.”
His lips pull into an ugly scowl. “Lots of people want Beaumont dead. I ain’t the first.”
Lots of people? I ball my fists at my sides. How dare he talk so casually about this?
As I reach for my knife, Thomas, knowing me, pins Victor down. “Anyone who has a problem with Kingsley has a problem with me.”
Seeing the sharp, shiny knife, he waves his arm in panic. “Look, man. I won’t do anything to him again. I won’t even fight him again, alright?”
Victor struggles in Tommy’s grip, but even with his strength, he’s no match for my brother. He’s been holding people down for me since we were teenagers.
“I know you won’t.” I sigh, glancing at my blade. “You won’t have the chance to.”
My knife slides over his wrists, and blood spurts out. He’s a total, struggling, panicked mess until I watch the light slowly leave his eyes, and he stills.
He slides against Thomas, who’s zoning out with that blank stare he gets when things turn violent. I stare at Victor’s lifeless body, my mind racing with a million thoughts, wondering if I made the right choice. It was an unnecessary killing. If we aren’t careful, it could get back to us and blow the entire operation, and for what?
“Rip,” Thomas asks, his voice flat. “Why did we do this?”
But that question reminds me why it was all worth it.
“Because no one touches Kingsley.”Except for me.
17
Rip
Aralynn takes a big, dramatic sniff, then exhales. “Oh, wow! I forgot how much I love the smell of piss.”
Shawn grimaces. “I forgot about this part.”
Thomas wrinkles his nose. “Is it supposed to smell like the inside of a urinal?”
Shawn slaps Tommy on the back, jolting him forward. “Buck up. It’s part of the experience.”
Me, Thomas, Kingsley, Shawn, and Aralynn stroll down the New Orleans streets. We’ve been here since the crack of dawn, and so far we’ve gone down the French market, ridden on a horse carriage, listened to live music—all the touristy things. Now we are on our way to find a good restaurant, but this particular street we’re on is riddled with a slight stench, and I’m starting to believe the mysterious puddles are exactly what people say—piss.
I yawn. “The day has been too fascinating for a little urine to ruin anyone’s day.”
Thomas and I are toting around a camera, but not the usual big and bulky ones. We’re technically on duty, but we only whip out the camera for brief moments, so we get some sort offootage. Most of our day has been spent enjoying the scenery alongside Kingsley and friends.
Our group’s walking comes to a halt when three girls and a guy appear before us, grins wide and phones in hand.
“Kingsley and Aralynn Beaumont?” one girl asks.
With hands on her hips, a huge grin, and sparkling eyes, Aralynn turns on her public-facing charm. “That’s us.”
The entire group squeals, the collective sound like knives stabbing my ears. The one guy in the group raises his phone. “Can we get a picture?”
Kingsley and his sister exchange a knowing glance, like "here we go again." It was fast and barely noticeable, and I think I’m the only one who caught it. Shawn, Thomas, and I hang back, letting the crowd mob the Beaumonts, and one of them gives Thomas their phone to take the photo. They huddle into a tight formation for the picture, with one girl draping her arms over Kingsley as if she knows him personally. I roll my eyes.
This is the fourth time this has happened today, and each occasion wears my already small patience thinner. It’s ridiculous how many people want pictures with Aralynn and Kingsley, and for what? Because they’re rich and pretty?
“Thank you!” the shorter woman chirps. “Can I have one with just you, Kingsley?”
Just him? Was the one with her all over him not enough?
I glance at my nonexistent watch. “We’re kind of in a time crunch.”
