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“Fuck, Claws, I had you doubting me this bad?” Antony leans his head against my shoulder. “Of course I didn’t know. I figured out the truth when you did – when we saw the note on Brentwood. If I’d known, I’d have crucified that bastard on the spot.”
“We need to find Brutus,” I growl. I need to see him suffer. Crucifixion is too good for the bastard.
“I’m aware,” Antony says darkly. “At least we know he’s close to the city. Brutus’ note means he knows you’re still alive, which means he knows I’ve been helping you. It’s both our asses on the line here.”
“Good. And don’t you forget it. But since you no longer have to hide the fact you’re a big bad mafia man, could you maybe contact some of those cops I know you’ve got on your payroll, and figure out what’s happening with Gabriel?”
“He’s a big boy, Claws. He can sort his own shit—”
“What if I beg?” I make a pouty face and get down on my knees in front of him, clasping my hands like I’m praying.
“Get your ass up before someone sees you.” Antony’s eyes dart to the door of the gym. He grabs my arms and yanks me to my feet. “There are eyes all over this school. The last thing we need is more incriminating material plastered on the internet.”
“It won’t happen, because I’m wringing Cleo’s stupid neck with my own hands,” I growl.
“You’re not touching her.” Antony grabs my wrist. “I’m serious, Claws. I let you have your fun with the actor. No more pranks. No more games. We’re this fucking close to getting the house. But if you die, it all goes to shit.”
“But Gabriel—”
Antony sighs. “I’ll make some calls. I’ll find out what’s going on. But you can’t lose your shit.”
Mollified, I duck out of the gym just as students start trickling in for Antony’s next-period gym class. As I head to the lockers to change, I pass Noah, his muscles bulging from his tight gym shirt. I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out before. No way he got that jacked running track.
Noah sweeps me into his arms. “What did he say?” he whispers. “Am I going to be strung up by the nuts and fed to the lions?”
“He doesn’t know about you,” I whisper back. “He came clean to me, though. You were right, he’s higher up than I thought. And what’s important is that Brutus still trusts him, which means that keeping Antony where he is now is going to be our best path to finding Brutus.”
“How does this Brutus guy know who you are?” Noah asks. “That note said—”
“I know what it said.”
“Right. So why is he leaving notes for you on corpses, instead of telling all his underworld buddies your real name?”
The chains around my box rattle. “I’d better hurry or I’ll be late for gym, and you know that new teacher’s a slave driver—”
“Hey, what happened to Gabriel?”
My mouth dries as I whip my head around. Eli stands in front of us, arms folded, that too-perfect mouth of his cocked in a worried expression. My lips tingle with the memory of that faint kiss he brushed against them at the after-party. The urge to throw myself into his arms ripples through me. I grip Noah a bit tighter.
“Like you care,” Noah snaps back.
“Of course I care,” the Southern notes twang in his voice. Eli swallows. “I’ve been running all over hell’s half-acre looking for you. It’s bad enough he’s drinking again, but the police are taking that video seriously—”
“Shove off.” Noah slams his hand into Eli’s chest, splaying his fingers. It’s an enormous hand, and it stops Eli in his tracks. He turns his big eyes to Noah, studying his former friend as if he intends to discern the answer from Noah’s concrete features. Tension ripples down Noah’s arm. He doesn’t shove Eli, but his monster lurks under the surface, and I can tell he’s close to snapping. “You don’t want to be part of this, remember? Go throw a ball around with your new stepfather.”
Eli’s face darkens. “Fuck you, Marlowe.”
He spins on his heel and stalks off, narrowly missing crashing into George as she bounces out of the girl’s locker room. “You were talking to Eli?” She sounds hopeful. “Did he say anything about…”
“The kiss?” I shake my head. In between the seventeen discussions we had about how lovely Isaac’s hair is, I told her what happened at the party. “Nope. It must’ve been a drunken mistake.”
“Eli Hart doesn’t make drunken mistakes,” George declares as she slips her arm into mine. “I meant to tell you, because I won’t see you at lunch—”
“Another art project?” George is applying for a creative arts program that’s hella competitive, and she’s only got a few months left to finish her application, so she’s working on it every hour of the day.
“Yeah. I’m going to need to tape paintbrushes to my hands if I’ve any hope of getting my portfolio done on time. Which was what I wanted to tell you – I’m not going to be at school tomorrow. I’m doing a workshop on audio-visual installations and optically altering time and space at the Brawley Guerilla Art Institute.”
“Sounds weird.”
