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“Shit.” Reese itches his chipmunk.
“Gross, right?” Dutch drops next to him on the couch, pressing close to wipe Reese’s frown with his golden retriever impression. “Ignore the pheromones. Tell us about your game.”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes,” Dutch and I snap, in-sync.
One of us needs an achievable dream.
Being tangled with the Triad regularly ruins our plans, but Reese always gets done the dirtiest.
He had a full ride to a baseball school with pro scouts on speed dial. Then Jericho Moon dragged him on a drug run that ended in a shattered shoulder and a coma.
After the surgeons turned Reese half cyborg, reconstructing his pitching arm, the scholarship evaporated and Kairo tightened our leash.
Reese could only join us for a higher education in black-ops and rehab his ass off for the chance to keep playing. Now he misses games and strains his muscles every time Kairo forces us to take a job.
I refuse to be seen in a mini-van, but I’ll drag his ass to practice like a helicopter parent if he tries to walk away now.
“What’s to tell? We lost. I got pulled and Coach ripped me a few new assholes.” Reese fishes a paper-bagged bottle from his duffel. “When’s Jin coming home? I need to get shitfaced.”
“Maybe he has good news,” Dutch says. “Jericho could be dead.”
I snort. “That fucker won’t die.”
I’d put money on Jericho Moon surviving a plane crash, let alone a sabotaged drag race. He’ll probably pop up from his traumatic brain injury with superpowers.
I text Jin for confirmation.
Too soon to send funeral flowers?
JIN
He’s still alive
“Fuck.” Reese pops a message into our pack chat.
Reese
I’ll save you a bottle
Jin
Only if it’s champagne. Things are changing.
While Dutch types out a big-fingered, and probably enthusiastic reply, Reese and I trade looks.
Him and I could get out clean—neither of us ever had blood family to give a fuck about.
Dutch’s mom and little sister have always been our weak point. We can’t risk moving them until we’re ready to take our escape plans nuclear.
So, as much as I want to detour to the hospital, hand Reese a silk pillow, and watch him deliver poetic, smothering justice, now is not the time to break the status quo.
I can only control what I can control.
I rub out another pump of sanitizer and straighten my tie, ready to play cool as fuck for any corporate moles, Triad spies, or hotel rubberneckers who think today is the day they’re going to catch me lacking.
I’m Bishop Augustus Barrington the fourth, and if you come at my pack, you can fuck all the way off.
