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When he stares at me like this, there is a flicker of that wildness, the bond we shared so long ago it seems like in a different life.When we used to be like brothers. When we were inseparable.
He was good. In his heart, Crone used to be the shit. A human being with trauma that always got the worst of him when it came out in public. As if he needed to make everyone pay for what happened to his mother and brother.
But in person, he was different. We used to share stories, secrets, stupid thoughts, and fucked-up moments. The craziness. The free spirit. I always admired his determination—if he wasn’t filthy rich, he would have built himself from the ground up.
He was the brother I never had.
Until her…
Because she wasn’t just another girl that I wanted to bang. And he saw it. And the jealousy got the worst of him.
Once thick as thieves, we became enemies. What bothers me and grinds sharp nails into my bones is that back on the mainland, I could always strike right back or walk away to the menacing sound of his laughter.
Here is a different story. It makes my blood boil in my veins.
He is a psychotic wizard who sets others on his chess board and plays his wicked games. And he will fuck with me infinitely. Whatever it takes.
I want to say a lot of things but don’t. It takes all my patience to hold back the spiteful words.
“Let them go,” I say quietly and lower my gun slowly.
We used to understand each other at a half-word—a strange connection that was weird and powerful. Even now, I stare him down, trying to find that speck of compassion that even monsters possess.
For a moment, I feel like he is the same Crone I used to race on bikes with or get mindlessly drunk with in shady bars on the outskirts of the town, laugh hysterically as we smoked weed up in the hills in the condemned area, or drive exhaustedly across Mexico. That was Archer Crone stripped of his wealth and arrogance.
“Come visit us some time, Droga. You might like it,” he says now with a smirk, his gaze turning spiteful again.
No, that Crone from years ago is gone.
“And that”—he waves his gun in his hand, looking around—“Danielle-what’s-her-face?” His gaze stops on Ty next to me, and Ty’s grip on the gun tightens.
“Easy,” I whisper to him.
“Relax,” Crone says with a snort. “I’m not interested in damaged goods. She is a cuckoo job. You can keep her.”
He slowly blinks toward me again and takes a step back. “I’d love to talk more, Droga, but I’m not a fan of this side of the island.”
Crone starts backing away slowly, his men behind him doing the same, taking the girls with them. The other minions widen the circle around us.
Wait-wait-wait.
My heart falls.
There should be a conversation. More of it. A fight. Anything to sort this out.
“Let’s roll!” Archer barks, stepping back faster, his gun on us again as he backs away past the kitchen and toward the path to the jungle.
The voice is right in my ear. “Leave the girls!” Bo passes me, his gun up, aiming at them. “Archer! Leave the girls! They don’t want to go!”
Everyone freezes. The synced clicking of the cocking guns echoes through the air.
It’s darker behind the kitchen, and the goons shine the flashlights in our faces, blinding us.
“Bo, step back,” Archer says calmly. “I respect you, man, but this is not your battle.”
“Not yours either, Archer. You don’t fight battles.”
Crone snorts. His gaze switches to that of spite and menace again.
