I wish I believed him, but sometimes …
“I hate you!” I scream at my dad, a potent rage burning inside me. “I wish you’d just go away!”
Blood on my hands.
Freak.
Loser.
Murderer.
Swallowing hard, I lift the hem of my shirt and peer down at the scars marking my flesh.
Freak.
Loser.
Unwanted.
Ugly.
Tainted.
Murderer.
My uncle carved them into my flesh the very first day I pissed him off. He held me down and told me this is what my parents felt like when I carved them up. I didn’t shed a single tear. I took my punishment. I fucking hate my uncle.
Tugging down the hem of the shirt, I slip on the leather jacket then adjust my leather bands to make absolutely certain those scars are hidden. The guys have seen too much of my ugliness already. Then I walk over to an oval mirror hanging on the wall and glance at my reflection.
I look like shit; pallid with dark circles under my eyes and my hair a wavy mess. But it is what it is.
I exit the room to go find out what in the world is up with these guys. And what the hell sort of town this is that I just moved to.
Chapter Eleven
The room Jax told me to go to looks a lot like the room with a pool table. The main difference is a set of drums and a couple of guitars are perched in the corner, along with some sound equipment.
When I enter, Jax is over at a bar area, pouring himself a glass of what looks like whiskey, and Hunter and Zay are sitting on the couch, drinking whiskey and chatting about something. They don’t notice me come in, which I find kind of funny.
“You guys in a band or something?” I ask loudly, mostly to try to startle them. I do, too.
Zay nearly jumps out of his skin, and Hunter spins around on the sofa. Jax, though, doesn’t even so much as blink in my direction, capping the whiskey bottle then returning it to a shelf.
Yeah, that guy is seriously the most controlled person I’ve ever met, I decide right then and there. I wonder why. Just like I wonder why Zay is so moody and why Hunter is such a flirty manwhore.
Hunter quickly recovers from being startled and grins at me. “We are. Are you impressed?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I’m not really into modern day music.”
"You like classic rock, then?" Hunter muses with a thoughtful expression.
I nod. "Yeah, my dad was into…" I stop myself. Jesus, was I just about to talk about my dad with them? My dad who I killed. I don’t deserve to talk about him. “But anyway, yeah, I like classic rock.”
Hunter smiles. “I bet we could learn how to play a few songs for you.”
I just shrug, not wanting to let myself get caught up in this whole “friendship” thing with them. Not when I know it’s not going to last.
Looking away, I step further into the room, highly aware that all of them are watching me.
“It took you forever to get changed,” Hunter says in a teasing tone, as if he’s trying to lighten my mood. “For a second, I thought I was going to have to come in and check on you to make sure you didn’t need any help getting dressed. Which, FYI, if you ever do need help getting dressed, I’m your guy.”
“I’m sure you are.” I inch farther into the room, my gaze skimming across the paintings on the walls … No, not paintings. Photos. Beautiful ones of places I’ve never been to, of lakes, of cities, of trees shedding their leaves. Of life. I wonder if Hunter took these? “So, whose house is this anyway?” I ask, tearing my attention off the photographs.
“Ours,” Hunter is the one to answer, lifting the brim of his glass to his lips.
“So, you all live here?” I ask, and he nods, lowering the glass. “Okay, but who technically owns the house?”
“Us.” Hunter slants forward, sets the glass down on a table in front of him, then pats the cushion between him and Zay. “Come sit down so we can talk. There’s some stuff you need to understand.”
I scratch the corner of my eye. “Can’t I just stand over here while we talk? I can hear just fine right now.”
“Yeah, but it’s so much more comfortable over here.” He pats the cushion and gives me a come-hither look.
I forcefully smash my lips together as laughter tickles my throat. “Yeah, but it’s so much closer to the door over here.”
Huffing out an exhale, Zay rises to his feet and strides across the room toward me.
As he nears me, I instinctively take a step back at the fire blazing in his eyes. I expect him to try to pick me up and sling me over his shoulder when he reaches me; however, he gently takes my hand.
“Just come sit down so we can get this over with,” he grumbles, leading me to the sofa then pulling me down with him as he plops onto the cushion.
Hunter slants forward to look around me and at Zay with a twinkle in his eyes. “You okay, man?”
Zay gives a nod. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Hunter elevates his brows then gives a pressing look at Zay’s and my interlocked fingers.
Zay immediately jerks back like I have cooties then scrubs his hand over his head, looking away and muttering, “Can we just get this over with? I have other shit to do tonight.”
And I guess we’re back to him being irritated then.
“You really are the moodiest person ever,” I remark, sinking back on the sofa.
Zay’s gaze cuts to me. “And you’re the most stubborn person ever.”
I shrug, crossing my legs. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“How about this?” He rotates on his seat and brings his knee onto the cushion while sliding his arm across the back of the sofa right behind me. “You, princess, have officially made your home in a town full of mobsters.”
“I already told you I’m not a princess …” I trail off as his words register and my eyes widen. “Wait. Mobsters?”
Zay’s lips kick up into a smirk, clearly pleased with catching me off guard. “Yep. The town is full of them. There are five main ones all crammed into this lovely, little place you now call home.”
“Well, I guess we’re just going to jump into this then,” Hunter mumbles from beside me.
Zay keeps his gaze welded with mine as he tells Hunter, “Might as well. It’s not going to be any easier if we try to ease her into this, like you suggested.”
“Not everyone is like you, Zay.” Hunter reaches for his drink. “Some people actually feel things other than disdain and anger.”
I want to remark on what he said, but my mind is still stuck on what Zay said.
“Mobsters?” I repeat. “Like real ones?”
“No, we’re talking about fake ones.” Zay’s tone seeps with sarcasm. “Of course we’re talking about real ones.”
I glance from him then to Hunter, who’s guzzling his drink like his life depends on it. Then my attention shifts over to Jax, who’s leaning against the bar, facing us, arms resting on the counter top. An empty glass is beside him, his gaze is on me, and his head is slightly angled to the side. He’s assessing me—that much I can tell—but his expression is so blank that I can’t tell much of anything else.
Blinking, I look back at Zay. “Are you messing with me? I mean, is this like … I don’t know. Is this like the bridge thing? I didn’t die, so you decided to screw with me?”
Zay slowly shakes his head, his gaze never wavering from mine. “Nope. And I already told you we never wanted you to die. That we didn’t even expect you to jump."
I’m still not sure I believe him. And I really don’t think I believe the whole mobster thing. I mean … “How is it possible for five main mobster groups to live in Honeyton? The population is, like, nothing.”
“Because a lot of population is part of a group.” Zay takes a sip of his drink. “About twenty-five percent of the town, actually.”
“Oh.” I sink back into the chair as I attempt to process this information. “When you say mobsters, do you mean like a bunch of powerful people that hang out? Or mobsters as in, we drop people into a lake with a brick tied to their feet mobsters?”
“Probably more the latter. Although, I’ve never personally dropped anyone into a lake with a brick tied to their feet.” Zay finishes the rest of his drink then sets the empty glass down on the table.
“No, you just threaten them into jumping into a river,” I joke but I’m still swirling in shock.
Mobsters? Mobsters live here?
Wait. Are they a part of one—
Zay’s nostrils flare as he leans forward, getting in my face. “You know what? I’m really starting to regret jumping in to save you.”
I roll my eyes then place my hand against his chest to push him back, a comeback tickling at my tongue. But the moment my hand comes into contact with his solid chest, I pause.
His heart is racing so fast. Like he’s freaked out of his damn mind. Or on some sort of drug.
Zay takes a shaky breath, his eyelids lowering.
“Little raven,” Hunter says cautiously, “pull your hand away.”
I start to do what he says, when Zay encloses his fingers around my wrist, stopping me. I tense as he then slips his finger underneath my leather bands and grazes the elevated scars. Then his eyelids lift open and he stares at me. He doesn’t react, which makes me wonder if he noticed the scars earlier, like maybe when he saved me. I wonder just how much he saw of them. If he put two and two together. Whatever he knows, I feel the need to defend myself, make up a story about where they came from, because I don’t want him to know about that ugly. The one I put on myself.
But, as my lips part, not a single sound leaves my mouth.
Zay takes a shaky inhale, skimming the pad of his thumb across the scars again. When he repeats the movement, my heart sputters inside my chest.
Touch. There it is again, the thing I had completely forgotten existed.
The warmth. That spark of connection.
But a warning rings in the back of my mind.