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9
Willow
On Saturday morning, the girls sit high in a gold, designer bikini I filched from Hillary. I also nabbed a white chiffon cardigan that brushes the ground. It’s sheer, and the material around my thighs doesn’t gather together. It was quick stealth work while she was in the shower. I’ve paired the outfit with golden bangles and tier earrings. A couple of locs from my temples skim across my breast, but the rest is in a bun.
A change of clothes is nestled in my backpack. My fingertips graze the opulent doorknob at the entrance when my name is called.
My eyes bite shut. The mascara and glowy makeup itches. I spin around in a pair of sandals also stolen from my sister. At least, they are cute and comfortable.
Thad’s eyes slide over me. I stop myself from placing an arm in front of my body as he scrutinizes me. “You and Hil bury the hatchet?”
“Yup, we’re good.” Like hell, she’d let me borrow her shit.
He fists a set of keys in his hands. “Where are you headed off too? Need a ride?”
“Meeting friends at the beach.” One friend, Dr. Eaton to be precise.
“Sounds good.”
“Yeah.” I’ll put the moves on him, show him the shiny .22 I also stole from Hillary. Maybe kill him. Maybe call the authorities.
“Which beach,” he inquires. “I’m heading out.”
“Eh, I was gonna Uber.” I backup a few paces. My calf hits the closed door.
Thad doesn’t shift courses. With a death grip on my backpack, my other forearm rests protectively over my sex. Gah, Hillary and her armoire of freaky clothing.
“Let me drop you off anyway,” he insists.
A knot twists in my gut at the thought of riding in the car with Old Money Bags. At the sound of footsteps upstairs, I concede. Besides, my cash reserves are looking low as it is. I tell him the beach where yachts are docked.
“Nice. I take it you’re associating with DuPont students? Who?”
“Ca . . . Camdyn . . . MacKenzie. . .” I stretch the name out to infinity recalling how the shock value hadn’t meant a thing to me. If I end up murdering Dr. Eaton, I could blame it on him. Camdyn’s knife fetish has to be good for something.
“Darn, those MacKenzies aren’t approachable. Listen,” Thad begins while I follow him through the house and to the five-car garage. “If that MacKenzie gives you any problems, you tell Thad. If the two of you become good friends, let them know Thad’s a criminal attorney.”
I’m almost tempted to ask who’s Thad. I’ve never heard him refer to himself in the third person. Instead, I slide into an Aston Martin, waiting for him to round the luxury car. A few grunts and squeaky joints later, Thad’s in the driver’s seat. I ask, “And they would require a criminal attorney, for what purpose?”
The old guy’s gander slides over my backpack, which I’m using to shield my chest. “What are you packing, pepper spray?”
“May-be. What’s the MacKenzies’ MO?” I ask while the frosted glass garage door opens.
“Nothing, Willow. That’s just it.” Thad’s coupe zips out into the sunshine. “No deaths have been officially linked to Clan MacKenzie, per se. Albeit people take lengthy vacations after crossing them.”
I blink a few times, letting the fresh air sail across my face. Don’t double-cross Camdyn—check. I look back at Thad and roll my eyes. Thad, you parasite. If my father were in his right mind, he’d tell me to stay the hell away from all MacKenzies and show me his big leather belt, not encouraging me like Thad.
* * *
Ten minutes ago, we arrived at the marina. Thad was out of parting wisdom. He just wriggled his fingers and uttered, “Have fun,” with the knife-fetish boy. Well, he spoke in French, and I came to my own conclusions.
I clutch the handle of my backpack and swing it in front of me, glimpsing the .22. A sliver of my sister’s favorite pearl handle peeks out from its position nestled between the outfit I plan to wear on my date with Christian later tonight. I’ll need to Uber myself back to the general area after leaving Dr. Eaton’s cold, dead body in his yacht. Or perhaps I can drive the damn thing out into the open sea and toss his ass over.
At the secured gate, I almost glance up to the heavens. Is this what should become of me? Well, I did shit on my track scholarship, which sounds pretty foreboding right now. Like I anticipated spending the next fifteen to twenty years confined where an advanced education is not required.
The sheer coverup rustles around my thighs. I slide the strap back over my shoulder and peer through the wrought iron gates marking the beginning of the private port. On the opposite side, houseboats, sailboats, and yachts bob gently in the water. A young, Middle Eastern guy, carrying crates of spaghetti wires, meanders up to the citadel of yachts at the end of the row. He’d been strolling from an SUV when Thad pulled up. When he walks back toward the entrance, my head tilts. His smooth, brown face is strikingly familiar. He peers me over too. Eh, all the curves the Good Lord gave me are on display. Although I accredit his attention to the outfit I hand-selected to tempt and murder Doctor Eaton, I conveniently drop my phone as he opens the gate.
“Thanks,” I mutter, shielding my face. The guy hadn’t been offering to hold the gate open, but I quickly pick up my iPhone and slip inside. From the corner of my eyes, I see him checking out my ass. You’re being paranoid, Lolo. He’d make a shitty eyewitness. All he’ll recall is booty and locs.
Though the whopper the stranger went to with his gear is the largest, the boats I pass are hulking masses. I glance inconspicuously around.
I’d followed Dr. Eaton here on Wednesday night. Two yachts are between Dr. Eaton’s light blue houseboat and the shiny black cruise liner the stranger keeps walking to and from. I glance over the stern of my mom’s doctor’s bachelor pad. It’s time to light the final match on this horrible life I lead and watch that sucker burn.
