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One week later
Cartier Nero was notorious for landing her ass in hot water. Constantly. And this is a real fucking problem when she has access to four weapons at her disposal who all would die and kill for her. The killing part is important… because we do it. Often. For her. And by we, I mean usually Ky and me.
The little bitch flutters her lashes and gets whatever the fuck she wants because she’s Cartier Nero.
Midnight Mayhem’s princess.
The fucking Ice Queen of Kiznitch.
No shit. She earned that name, not from her teal hair—the color of water when it freezes over the ocean bed—but because that’s exactly what she is. A cold ass bitch. Her parents’ first mistake was putting her into a normal ass school and not allowing her on the road with us, because now—I was pretty sure I’d burn this house down with all these stupid fucking pupes still inside.
“Cartier!” I yell, and her little body pauses just before the glass doors open out to the backyard. She doesn’t move. The music is still playing around us, and sweaty teens continue to dance to the beat of the song, but she heard me. Loud and fucking clear.
Just when I think she’s going to turn around to face me, she bolts forward and ducks between the bodies on the patio that spill out into the LED illuminated pool.
My upper lip curls as I snatch someone’s beer from them, following her footsteps. She fucking knows what she’s doing. Brat.
As soon as I hit the patio, my phone starts vibrating in my pocket and I swipe it unlocked when I see it’s Kyrin.
“She there?”
I don’t bother telling him that I’ve already lost her in the crowd. “Yeah. How’s the girl?” Cartier is good at playing diva, but the second she drops blood, it becomes a Kiznitch cover-up. We were about to leave NYC for a year because of our international schedule and she had to throw her toys out of the cot one last time. On her birthday, nonetheless.
“Alive.” Kyrin shuffles around in the background and my eyes fly around the space. Flashy lights, laughing girls, horny boys—horny boys staring at Cartier. “Maybe I should just put a bullet between her eyes. She could be messy and make this a problem.”
The Nero city house in the Upper East Side of New York is about as basic as they wanted it to be. High ceilings, new appliances, and all five bedrooms upstairs. I don’t know when the last time the older Neros were here, but by the state of it, I’d say around the same time we left, which means Cartier, who is now all but seventeen, has been running around playing queen of NYC and with an unlimited amount of money. I can only imagine the shit she has gotten into.
My eyes land on her instantly where she’s seated on a chair beside the pool with three other guys and another girl. There’s a table between them with coke dusted in straight lines. Her hair is out and in soft waves, and her face is layered with makeup. I get distracted when she flicks the rolled dollar bill around her fingers before leaning down and sniffing not one, but three lines in one hit.
Clearly, she’s giving a new meaning to her nickname the Ice Queen.
“No,” I answer my trigger-happy friend, heading right to where she is. “I’ll be there soon.” Hanging up with him, I shove my phone back into my pocket and kneel beside Cartier, my hand resting on her knee.
“Yo, man, you’re dreaming if you think she’ll let you hit. She only fucks teachers.”
I freeze, my grip around her thigh tensing. Her eyes are glued on the table, unwilling to look at me.
“What?” I mutter through gritted teeth but don’t move from her. I need to see her reaction when he repeats himself. How her sharp features melt when he fucking declares that she has been fucking her teacher.
A hand comes to my shoulder and I spin around, my fist flying straight into his nose. Blood spits out over my knuckles as I stand to my height. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
I turn back to Cartier, who hasn’t moved from her spot. “Look at me.” She doesn’t, and when I wrap my bloody fingers around her chin, forcing her face up to mine, I see it there. The fire, the ice, and everything that makes her a Nero, but it’s her eyes that are always my undoing. Something I’ve kept to myself since we were kids, because if anyone ever found out, Kyrin and I would send each other straight to Valhalla, and right now, she’s not worth losing a brother over.
Maybe one day.
Just not today.
“I didn’t know you were back.” Her blue eyes are lined with dark mascara or whatever shit chicks use to make it look all pirate-like. When the glass in her eyes forms a teardrop that falls down her cheek, I tighten my grip around her chin.
“I’m shutting this shit down, and we need to talk.”
She finally shoves out of my grip, swiping the tears from her cheek and pushing up from her chair. She slides her phone out from between her tits and hits pause on Spotify before pushing her fingers between her lips. “Everyone out!” They move quickly as if they’ve tested Cartier before and have witnessed firsthand the wrath of her anger. She’s not always that way, and only around people she truly doesn’t respect or like. Which makes her both painfully annoying and dangerous. I’m guessing the drama from a week ago with the fuckwit jock and his girlfriend died out the way we wanted it to. With Cartier not involved and her reputation intact.
I watch as people shuffle out, including the guy I punched to the ground who has his friends on either side, helping him up. I chuckle, shaking my head while grabbing Cartier by the wrist and dragging her back toward the house. Red Solo cups litter the floor, and empty pizza boxes lie messily over the coffee tables. The thousands of dollars’ worth of coke is still chilling out on the table. This is a poster for every rich kid with too much money and not enough love.
Grabbing my hoodie from the back of my collar, I pull it over my head and toss it onto her lap. “Put it on and don’t fucking fight with me. I’m not in the mood.” I fall onto the sofa in the family room, spreading my legs wide and watching her carefully. “Your brother is pissed, by the way. What the fuck happened?”
“Nothing,” she snaps, shoving the hoodie over her head to hide the little leather crop top she’s wearing that flashes her swollen tits out to the world. Cartier has the body of a woman years above her age. We’re Midnight Mayhem, yeah, but there’s a reason why Cartier isn’t on the road, and it has everything to do with the fact that none of us want her there. For more than one reason.
