Page 75 of The Unravelings

That’s another piece of the puzzle I need to put together. Why Dane? He wasn’t even a scholarship student. An asshole, yes. It’s something I need to investigate more and figure out what the hell is happening around here. Besides, Franco and his stupid gang. Or Malic, Wilder, and his.

There are too many goddamn problems in this city for only me to figure out, but I’ll do it. I’ll throw my everything into it and give it my all. Like I always do.

No matter how hard it is.

With a groan, I roll off my bed, retrieve my glasses, and put them on again. Standing tall, I peer around my room one last time before I walk out as Oliver again. Even though I want to stay here, cuddle in bed, and never leave again. But I have to keep playing my part. Even with my heart shuddering in my chest, my mind is whirling with all the possibilities.

As I close the closet door, my gaze catches on the bag of donuts and the lukewarm coffee JJ got me as a gift. Could he have poisoned them? Doubtful. Maybe? Probably not.

Reaching down, I collect a donut out of the bag, and my mouth waters at the smell. I take a giant leap of faith by taking a small bite before heading out to the party to meet Simon and his newest boyfriend, Daniel. Thank God I’m Oliver and not Olivia tonight, or I’d have to actually put in an effort into my appearance.

Huh. Maybe being Oliver has its advantages in that department. All I need are my glasses, my contacts, some baggy clothes, and bam! I’m Oliver.

21

Huxley

“This suit is itchy,” Mack grumbles, pulling at the collar while huffing and mumbling more curses under his breath. “I fucking hate suits and I fucking hate these parties.” He glowers at the people in the distance, schmoozing with one another in their finest dresses and suits.

And he hates him.

Nathaniel Franco.

The man who forced us to attend this gala as his happy sons. Putting up a front that we’re the best of the best, in hopes of luring in more people to our side.

I hate these fucking parties, too. The suits suck. The drinks are never enough to drown out the fact that I don’t want to be here. But the absolute worst part about all this? The fucking people in attendance. Standing around with diamonds worth more than money can buy, and wristwatches sparkling under crystal chandeliers. They laugh and schmooze, hoping to rub shoulders with Franco and gain his favor. They’ll offer something from their turf, and he’ll provide something important from his, expanding his reach and gaining more allies. One discussion at a time. He may frame this gala as the party of the century, inviting anyone he can think of to witness the induction of his new members, AKA our pledges, graduating into the gang, but it’s all for business.

For him. His territory.

For Greenwood.

“Get your shit together,” I grumble, taking a small sip of champagne as my eyes wander over the crowd of people milling around that grand space.

Voices murmur from every direction, echoing off the tall, vaulted ceilings of the ballroom located in Franco’s most popular casino. Emerald Cove. Named after the most famous cove in Greenwood, where Captain John Greenwood crashed onto and then hid from authorities until they gave up or he was presumed dead. Treasure was hidden by him somewhere in this town, drawing people from all over to dig for it, but it was never found. This town is his namesake, and so is this casino.

Three massive chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting dim light over the ten-thousand-square-foot space as rainbows cascade from the crystal lining the walls. A large curved bar occupies a good chunk of the room to our left, stopping only at the elevated stage, where a string quartet plays classical music and brings peace to the room. Many familiar faces drift through the space, laughing and smiling as they reconnect for the first time in over a year.

Fucking fakes.

“There are lots of new faces this year,” I murmur, bringing my glass to my lips and sipping the bubbly drink.

“Too many,” Mack says, leaning into us. “There have to be at least a thousand more people here than normal.” His brows furrow. “What the fuck is his game?”

Yeah, that’s something we’ve wondered for years now. What game is Franco playing? There’s an angle somewhere—a hidden agenda he’s tucked beneath his arm, waiting for the right time to utilize it.

JJ cocks his head, taking in the crowd. “Do you see the men and women in black suits along the edge over there?” he signs discreetly, trying to keep our presence low-key and our words away from onlookers, gaping at us like we’re zoo animals on display. Yeah, we know. We’re the sons of the man you want to grease palms with.

Well, for the moment, anyway. Franco always brings us on stage to show us off and talk us up, along with our efforts at Greenwood U and what he has us doing for the community. And I use the term community loosely. We’re helping to raise his numbers and fill his ranks within our gang.

“Dude, they look like FBI agents,” Mack quickly signs with a frown, taking in the dark figures, staying in the shadows, and watching the crowd.

“Keep an eye on them. Something feels weird about this gala…” I trail off in a soft voice, keeping my eyes on the new faces wandering the room, wide-eyed and eager with excitement.

“You can say that again,” Mack quips, pulling at his collar again. “Fuck, I got this too fucking tight,” he gripes more, twisting his expression and yanking at his bowtie.

JJ sends him a sharp look and knocks his hands from his collar. “You’re going to draw attention to yourself,” he signs, gesturing to the people side-eyeing him.

“Fine,” Mack huffs like a child again, letting his arms fall to his sides. His fingers flex and squirm until JJ’s sharp glare freezes him mid-movement. “Sorry,” Mack grumbles with no remorse in his tone.