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More than eager to get the hell out of there, I nod at Rhyland to follow me as I stride for the door.
“Oh, and Blaise?” Dad calls out.
I tense, gripping the doorknob. “Yeah?”
“A lot is riding on this heist being successful,” he warns in a low tone. “Don’t mess it up.”
Gritting my teeth, I jerk open the door. “I won’t.”
And I’m telling the truth. While I hate doing illegal shit, especially stealing for my dad, I don’t have a choice this time.
Alex’s life depends on it.
44
HADLEY
“You’reHadley mother effing Harlyton. You got this.” I’m in the process of giving myself a pep talk as I stand in the bathroom, staring into a mirror, attempting to get my shit together before I go to school.
Just outside the bathroom, my sisters are frantically running around, getting ready. Everyone is tired, including me.
After I left Blaise’s last night, I barely slept, and with all the emotional stress I’ve been under, I’m beyond exhausted.
While I’d love to ditch school today, I can’t bring myself to do it. Not when I just received custody of my sisters, thanks to some papers my mom signed, which I’m still super confused about since she passed away years ago. Still, now that I have custody of them, I can’t be irresponsible. If I do, Social Services will come knocking on my door.
Still, with everything that’s happened and is continuing to happen, I wish I could skip a day of school and take a nap. It’d help me prepare for tonight when I have to drive down to the docks to help August Porterson do who knows what.
My gaze drops to my bandaged wrist. Beneath the bandage, my flesh is branded with the Porterson’s crest, a reminder of the debt I owe August—my father’s damn debt. And it’s not the only debt I owe on behalf of my asshole of a father. I also have to find six bags that are filled with drugs and money. Bags he stole from Axel Maeiriellie, August Porterson’s rival. And I have to find them within a month. Well, I have to find five of them since I know where one bag is. Which reminds me …
Axel told me I was supposed to tell him the location of that one, yet he left without getting it. I wonder what that’s about. Not that I’m going to stress about it right now. Right now, I need to focus on finding the other five bags. But I’m feeling pretty damn uneasy about being able to pull this off.
Anger simmers under my skin as I think about how deep of a mess I’m in because of my dad. Part of me wonders if it might be easier to track him down and rat out his location so he’ll have to deal with this. I’m not a fan of being a narc, but this might be an exception. The only problem is that I have no clue where he is or where to start looking for him, except for maybe in a bar, but I doubt that’s where he’s going to be. The last time I saw him was a couple of days ago, when he hit me.
My gaze travels to my reflection, travels across the fading bruise on my hairline and cheek, remnants of the fight my dad and I got into. I have dark circles underneath my eyes and my wrist burns like a mothereffer. I tried to put a bit of makeup on to cover up my haggard appearance, but it didn’t work very well. My long, brown hair doesn’t look too bad, though; swept to the side in a tangled mess of waves. Since I haven’t had time to do laundry, I threw on the only outfit that was clean: a black T-shirt and a pair of matching torn jeans. And yeah, I realize I’m sporting the Porterson’s dark clothing style, but it was either wear this or dig something out of the hamper that will probably smell like Londyn’s sweaty soccer clothes.
Grimacing, I tear my gaze away from the mirror and head back to my room where I grab a jacket. The only one I can find that’s clean is a fake leather one that also happens to be black. Since I’m really on a roll, I decide to slip on my black, lace-up boots, too, figuring I might as well go all in with this whole matching-the-Porterson-brothers look, something I have a feeling one of them is going to comment on.
Londyn pops her head into our bedroom as I’m grabbing my bag, startling me a bit.
“Hey, are you about ready to go …?” She trails off as she notes my outfit. “Are you going Goth or something?”
I sling the handle of the bag over my shoulder. “Nah, I just didn’t have anything clean to wear.” I collect my car keys off the dresser. “I really need to do some laundry soon.”
“I can do it for you,” she offers, collecting her messenger bag. Her hair is done up in a ponytail, and she’s sporting an athletic shirt, along with jeans and converse sneakers. “In fact, I think maybe we should all start helping out more.”
“I’ve got everything handled,” I say, stuffing my keys into my pocket.
She frowns. “Had, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you look awful.”
“Gee, thanks, sis,” I say dryly. “It’s a good thing I’m not really into my looks, or that might’ve really hurt my feelings.”
“I didn’t mean it like that … I just …” She sighs heavily. “You have bruises on your face and a bandage on your wrist … And, did you even sleep at all last night?”
“Actually, last night I did.” When I was at Blaise’s house. I just didn’t go back to sleep after I came home.
“You mean, when you were at the Portersons’ house?” Her tone is a mixture of speculation and curiosity. “Because you never did fully explain why you were over there.”
I shrug. “Blaise was just helping me out with some stuff, and I accidentally fell asleep.”
