“Good riddance is right,” my friend grumbles. “Can we just be grateful you don’t have to worry about him coming to fightanymore? We’ve got too many other things to focus on than Victor Plaster.”
Victor was banned from fighting for two months after the knife incident. Knowing him, he might have tried to join anyway and force a third rematch, so yeah. Having Victor out of our hair is a good thing. But it still raises the question of who murdered him and if it’s any of our concern.
Maybe someone else was after Victor, and it had nothing to do with Fight Club.
Or maybe someone else had a problem with Victor, and it had everything to do with Fight Club.
Loud steps draw our focus as Rip and Thomas walk toward us. Hm, they got out of the meeting with my father quicker than most. Some interrogation, huh?
“Hey guys,” Thomas greets us in his usual friendly manner.
My sister and I greet them back, but Shawn barely waves. His eyes show more scorn for the brothers than I’ve seen before, and he’s doing nothing to hide it.
“You survived the meeting with Xavier, I see,” Odie says, tugging at my hair.
“He isn’t that frightening,” Rip says with a bored shrug. Our eyes meet, and he shoots me a smug grin.
“Don’t let him hear you say that.”
Rip stares at my head as he comes over. “He isn’t as scary as Kingsley can be.”
The sheer surprise on Odette and Shawn’s faces is evident as their jaws drop and they share a bewildered stare. I guess it's astounding to hear someone finds me scarier than my father. Love the vote of confidence.
Odie can’t wrap her head around it. “Really?”
“Yeah. Unlike Xavier, King never has much to say. It all happens with his eyes.” Rip searches my eyes. “The quiet ones are always more intimidating.”
That is not what I expected Rip to say. At least that means I haven’t lost all of my qualities this past year.
“Are you sure it’s because he’s quiet? Or because of another reason?” Shawn asks as if he’s itching to get an incriminating answer.
His question is so obvious, and I can practically taste his suspicion. I understand he’s trying to feel Rip out, but tipping him off sure isn’t the way to do it. I swear, it’s like Shawn never learned how to be casual about anything. It’s astounding how the entire Crowncrest hasn’t found out about the mole yet.
Eerily calmly, Rip asks, “What other reason would there be?”
Shawn grunts. “I don’t know. Maybe you saw something you shouldn’t have. Maybe you know something you shouldn’t.”
I stare at Shawn like the motherfucker has grown two heads. “Ignore him, Rip. He doesn’t know how to tell funny jokes.”
Shawn and Rip stare at each other intensely, with me, Thomas, and Odette observing. Shawn is the one who breaks it, muttering something incoherent under his breath as he does. Rip doesn’t bat an eye or pause, keeping that overly relaxed, yet smug grin, like he has zero idea what Shawn was really on about.
“Anyway,” Rip drawls, “nice seeing you guys. Kingsley, we’ll see you tomorrow.”
I nod up at him. They’re out of earshot when I lean over and whisper in Shawn’s ear. “Could you be any more subtle?”
Shawn shrugs unapologetically. I knew he had his suspicions about Rip and Thomas before, but he’s way more ticked off about them than I thought.
A loud, sudden bang echoes throughout the house, its sheer volume and the resulting rattle jolting me. Someone screams—I think it was my sister—and my hand darts for the concealed gun in my ankle holster in an instant. I’m bent over when it hits me: it’s not fucking there. I ditched it the second I got home, eventhough I know I need to get back into the habit of carrying one around the house. Fuck.
A moment later, the door burst inward, revealing SWAT officers in large, heavy vests, and ARs pointed directly at us.
“Hands where we can see them!” one barks. His tone suggests we won’t like what happens if he has to say it again.
Everyone’s hands rise in a flash, knowing there isn’t anything we can do with those weapons aimed at our heads. Keeping the rest of my body steady, my eyes search for a way out of this. Being cornered in the living room isn’t something we’ve practiced for, probably because it was never something anyone thought would happen. Fuck, I’m at a loss. Any sudden movement could have me on the ground—it would be stupid to try anything.
I wait for more orders and questions, or for them to grab us without a word, but nothing happens.
They give us a good once-over, then the majority brush past. Some stay back, watching us, teeth clenched so tight they might break, and glaring like they could kill us where we stand.
