“I’m leaving this to you, get it done.” He almost chokes through the sugar in his mouth before chucking the phone down.
Inquisitive by nature my hands become jittery with a need to see this book. It looks like something you’d see in a Jumanji movie, a treasure of some kind.
Picking up a pen, he flicks through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for and strokes his wrist over the surface, adding ink to the paper.
Closing the book he strains to stand back up and groans when his knees click under the pressure of his weight. I move further back until I’m flush with the wall. He locks the book back away and waddles past the couch I’m hidden next to and disappears out the room.
Present.
It was two years later when I finally got to see the book.
God’s parents were away on business and my best friend had a bad habit of needing to chase adrenaline highs. Stealing his father’s brand new Bugatti Veyron would give him just that.
The car cost a cool two million so the keys were kept in Four’s office safe.
Little did I know God had worked out the combination a year earlier.
There was a lot of fortune in that safe, but my curiosity was on one thing. That book. “What the fuck you want to look at a book for?” God snorted. I remember his nonchalant shrug as if it was yesterday when I told him to give me a few minutes with it.
4 Years earlier.
“Whatever, just hurry up, Jasmine and Angela are waiting for us.” He grins.
Reaching inside the safe I pull out the book.
It looks thicker since the last time I saw it, but that could just be because I’m seeing it up close.
It’s heavy, weighted by the leather and metal woven into the front cover.
A skull wearing a crown is raised from the surface, I run my fingers over the detail feeling like I’ve found something otherworldly. Secret. Precious.
Roman numerals adding up to seven sit beneath the skull and words written in a language I can’t read are scrawled beneath them.
UNICENDUM NATUS
Opening the book the first page makes my heart stampede.
Members of
THE ELITE SEVEN SOCIETY.
Pages and pages of businesses and familiar names fill the paper.
My hands shake when I come to a page with my last name written at the top.
MASTERS
A list of our family tree written beneath and a log of all businesses owned by family members.
How can a society have so much information on everyone?
My stomach bottoms out when my eyes read over a declined stamp in big red letters next to each person printed there.
Declined from what?
“Rhett, let’s go man, we got rubber to burn.” God barks at me and snatches the book from my grasp stuffing it back into the safe.
Present.
My name wasn’t in there. I only pray my name has been added now and an acceptance stamp gets printed next to it. I’ve never seen the book since.
When Four returned from his trip he was told of God’s antics, driving through the town in a car owned by only a few men in the entire world.
It was hard to deny we stole the car for a joy ride.
Four upped his security system and we’ve been locked out ever since.
I’m convinced God’s name will show up on that list, and I want to be on it with him.
Since losing my potential football career, I’ve become obsessed with The Elite. But there is little information out there about them. All we really know is only seven members are initiated each year, and those members are to be the best of the best—members who can become an asset to society—and this mission tonight is to solidify my name amongst those seven.
A rumor surfaced that a document of proof that The Elite exists is going to be leaked to the local press. A manila envelope containing damning details has been posted today to the press office.
Most people have rolled their eyes at this gossip, but I think it’s a test.
The Elite is testing new potential recruits to see if anyone will try to retrieve the letter.
I’m going to do one better.
I suck the pipe and spit out the gas as it fills my mouth. Sticking the pipe in the can, I grin as it fills.
Sorry, Mrs. Barnes. We need the gas more.
I move from her white sedan to the other neighbor’s truck. It only takes the two before the can is filled to the brim.
“That was gross.” I spit a few times to clear the residue from my gums.
Jogging down the road to God’s car, a blood-red Ferrari Pininfarina Sergio—flashy son of a bitch, we jump in and drive in silence along the back roads to keep off the radar of cameras or law enforcement.
I get him to drop me off a couple blocks down from the sorting office.
All mail ends up here, ready to be delivered, and working times are four a.m. to ten p.m., so the building will be empty.
“You sure you don’t want me to come with?” God asks, pulling the car to the side of the road next to an old abandoned factory building.
“Nah. Just meet me back at my house and we can hit up Winter’s party. Get an alibi for the night.”
“Sounds good. Be careful.”
Slipping behind the structures, I stick to the shadows, making sure the hood of my jacket covers most of my face in case there are cameras on any of the buildings.
When I reach the sorting office, I do a lap around the block. It’s past eleven, so the place should be empty, but double checking puts my mind at ease. No lights are on inside, and no cars litter the parking lot.
Unscrewing the cap on the gas can, I begin pouring a barrier around the building. Once I’ve done a full circle, I stuff a rag in the end of the bottle, light it, and send it hurtling through one of the windows.
A whooshing sounds, and then the smell hits my nostrils. It’s not long before a crackling of flames licks up the windows.
I light the trail outside the building, and within minutes, the entire place goes up like kindling.
Smiling, I make a run for it, ignoring the dull ache shooting up the side of my leg from my old foot injury.
I make it four blocks, then my stomach bottoms out.
Blue lights flash and a cop car pulls over.
Fuck.
Staring at my old man, I focus on his lips moving, but I stopped listening to him once he said he was relaying my mom’s message because she didn’t want to see me to tell me herself.
“Are you listening to me?” he barks, and I’ve honestly never felt this disconnected, lost. I need him to fuck off so I can get out of here and escape in liquor and women.
“Sorry I missed that last part.” I rub a hand over my face before crossing my arms over my chest.
Rolling his eyes, he pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales an exasperated breath.
“Terms of your enrollment is you’ll see a guidance counselor once a week.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve been acting out since your brother’s death, breaking bones and burning down buildings!” he shouts.
Slouching back on the couch, I shrug a shoulder.
“There was no proof I started that fire. No charges were brought against me.”
“Yet,” he corrects. “You’re lucky you’re best friends with a Goddard.”
Getting to my feet, I pull on my jacket and swipe my keys from the table.
“Until then, I’m innocent.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” he snaps. I hate the look in his eyes: disdain and regret. It wouldn’t be so bad if his eyes weren’t a reflection of my own.
“Out. Going to celebrate getting into college.” I smile tightly.
Snatching my keys from my hand, he chucks them back on the table and walks around me, stating, “By the skin of your teeth and the graces of your family ties—that’s what got you into college. There’s nothing worth celebrating about that.”
The ribbon keeping my temper together fragments and tugs away, until it completely unravels. “Fuck you,” I growl.
He turns sharp, his dark eyes penetrating mine. Marching toward me, he stops a foot away. His chest is puffed out and shoulders are back, but there’s wariness in his approach that wasn’t there before this moment.
Our height is equal these days. I’m topping just over six-foot, and my frame is slightly slimmer than his due to all the running for football, but I’m packing all muscle. If it came down to it and he threw a punch, I know I could take it and deliver one back just as powerful.
“Tread carefully, Rhett. I could take all this away just as quick as it was given.”
His threat is menacing and hits me harder than a punch ever could.
Fuck him.
I’ll walk to God’s and we can party there.
It wasn’t the plan for me and God to end up at the same college, but it’s a fucking bonus worth celebrating nonetheless.
Loud drumming pounds all around me. The room is filled with bodies jumping up and down to the beat. Everyone is shouting, throwing themselves into each other like idiots. I have no fucking clue how I ended up here.
Walls plastered with posters close in on me, and red cups litter the holey couch I’m sitting on.
Some female is gyrating on my lap, making my cock jump in my pants while she chants along to some lyrics being yelled into a mic.
I can barely make out God across the room joining in with the weird jumping around shit. We’re not used to or interested in this type of music, yet he’s acting like he is.
This is typical of God. He has more money than sense and a cocksure attitude that makes most normal people quake. That’s his dad in him—the “I rule the world” attitude.
Coming to a party like this is entertaining to him. His family is no doubt richer than all these peoples’ families combined, and slumming it with the basic folk amuses him. He has a sick sense of humor.
A voice growls into a mic, and the atmosphere spikes. Beer rains down on us as drinks are sloshed around.
The music cuts off, and someone’s voice echoes through the room.
“Thanks for coming out to support us tonight. Make sure you buy a CD before you leave. Only five dollars.”
Where the fuck are we?