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I make my way over to the elevator and take it up to the seventh floor. I enter the Spade brothers’ office. “You wanted to see me,” I say to Mr. Price.
He looks up at me from his desk. He’s the only one here, thankfully. Otherwise, my father would want to know what I’m doing. I don’t even know what the fuck we’re doing. He had sent me a text this morning to meet him here first thing. Alone. I wasn’t about to turn him down when the chosen ceremony is so close.
“I need to show you something,” he says, straightening his suit jacket.
“Okay,” I say slowly.
“But first I need you to understand that you can’t act on this.”
I cross my arms over my chest.
“Saint,” he growls. “You have to promise.”
What could be so important that he’s making me promise? Surely, he doesn’t take that shit seriously? What’s next? Make us cross our pinkies like we’re little girls agreeing to keep a secret? “You have my word.” I lie. I’m not agreeing to shit when I don’t have all the facts.
Sighing, he picks up the remote and turns on the TV that hangs on the wall.
I step closer as a video begins to play. The sound of Ashtyn’s soft sobs fills the room as the video shows me with his daughter tied to her bed with my fingers down her throat while she comes all over the vibrator that I hold between her shaking legs.
“Did you really think I’d buy her a house without placing surveillance inside?” he questions.
I take a deep breath and turn to look him in the eyes. “I didn’t break any rules,” I say through gritted teeth. The fact that he watches his daughter in her room on a daily basis should be the sick part. But add the fact he’s also watched me get her off? But then again, a part of me isn’t all that surprised. He’ll be watching me fuck her soon in front of an audience anyway.
“I’m aware.” He nods. “But this one tells a different story.” He presses play once more, and this time, there is no audio.
But I can see it all play out in front of me like a scary movie. Only it’s not scripted. It’s real.
My breathing picks up as I clench my hands. “No,” I manage to say, shaking my head, not believing my own eyes. It ends, and the TV shuts off.
I realize I’m shaking when a hand lands on my shoulder, and I jump back.
“Son,” he says. “Remember the conversation we had at my home the other day?”
I nod. It’s all I’m capable of.
“You know what to do, then?”
Another nod.
“You keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours.”
ASHTYN
I’m sittingon my bed, an empty bottle of wine in my hand watching a documentary about a serial killer who murdered over fifty people in a ten-year span. My first thought is that he’s a Lord. To get away with that many murders in this day and time? They have to know who he is, where he’s been, and who his victims are.
That tells me they’re letting him get away with it. Or maybe the detectives on the case are the Lords and they’re told to stay one step behind. Either way, someone involved has the Lords crest branded on their chest.
I turn the channel, and it’s the news. I sit up when I see a brunette on it. Another missing girl. She’s nineteen and just started her freshman year at college. Her mother last saw her for lunch three days ago. Her mother called her that evening, and she never returned it. The girl’s car was also abandoned and empty, with the driver’s side door open.
It shows her mom and dad at a press conference. They’re holding up a picture of her. The mother is too distraught to speak while the father pleads for her to come home. If someone has her to just let her go. I hate it for them. For her. But a part of me wishes I had a family like that. One that would care if I went missing. Instead, my family will toss me to the side when I don’t do what my body is “required” to do.
My door opens, and I look over to see Saint enter my room. It’s been three days since I saw him. No call, no text, nothing. Which tells me one thing—he’s been at Carnage.
My father does the same to my mother. Goes off the grid. Then he comes home, and she yells at him until he leaves again. God, that has to be such a miserable life. Always so unhappy or having to fake it. No wonder she hates it so much.
“What do you want, Saint?” I ask, lifting the wine bottle to my lips, but I frown when I’m reminded it’s empty.
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Fuck, he looks delicious. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and combat boots with a black leather jacket, which tells me he rode his bike over here. He’s got a hat on backward that his dark hair peeks out from underneath. I hate that he’s seen me naked, yet I haven’t seen him.
