River Street? Fuck. I’ve been skeptical about Mason’s theory that Cain and Oliver are the ones behind the quickly growing Reaper Rejects, but it’s hard to deny the mounting evidence. Knowing their base of operations is River Street—the street all three of us grew up on, only makes it that much more likely that it’s them. Why else would a gang set up there? There’s nothing particularly appealing or strategic about that street. It’s nothing more than rundown, dilapidated houses, half of which lay empty and had been claimed by the druggies and vagrants that roam this town in abundance.
Nodding my head, I lift the beer bottle, taking a long swig of the cool, frothy liquid. It’s cheap and bitter, but it helps to calm my nerves. With one last once-over, the bartender moves to the opposite end of the bar to serve a newcomer, and I sweep my gaze over the rest of the room, not really taking any of it in as my thoughts drift to the friends I once knew. There’s so much that could go wrong tonight. There’s no guarantee the men that lead the Reaper Rejects are still the same friends I knew growing up. Time changes us all, and living here, in this dog-eat-dog town, hardens you. It makes you cynical and untrusting. Ten years is a long time, and for all I know, they saw my leaving—and the fact I never reached out to them—as an act of betrayal. By turning up unannounced, I could be walking into a fight, if not a bullet to the head.
Yet, as I finish the bottle, slap a few dollars down on the sticky counter and push my way through the writhing mass of drunken bodies out into the dark street, there’s no doubt in my mind. There’s no second guessing, or hesitation. It doesn’t matter what greeting I receive from them, or how high the risk is, I still have to try. For Hadley.
I make it back to my car and drive it over to River Street on the opposite side of town. Familiarity crashes through me as I pull onto what used to be my childhood street. The place where the guys and I played chicken with passing cars, where my mother would stand on the front porch and yell for me to get my ass inside and ready for bed. The place where our childhoods came crashing down and everything changed.
I slow the car to a crawl, probably looking like I’m preparing for a shootout drive-by, as I gradually make my way down the street. I pull over to the curb, coming to a stop opposite what was once my house. Staring out the window, I take in the narrow, two-story terrace house. The place is shrouded in darkness, not a single light on at this late hour. Everything about it looks the same as it did the day I left. White paint is peeling off the front door and window sills, and the front steps still look like a heavy weight will have them snapping in two. Patches of dead grass and weeds have pushed their way up through the concrete slabs lining the house, only adding to the derelict appearance.
With a heavy sigh and a nostalgic ache in my chest, I tear my gaze away from my old front porch, instead focusing on the house two doors down from where I’m parked. Cain’s childhood home. Unlike the darkened houses on either side of it, light streams out from the front windows, lighting up the road in front of the house, and I can just about make out two men standing in the shadows on the porch.
Well, I didn’t come all this way to just sit here. May as well get out and see if this guy really is Cain. I push open the car door and step out, striding confidently along the sidewalk with my head up, looking like I belong. As I reach the metal gate, I notice the guys by the door stiffen and stand upright, eyeing me warily.
“The fuck do you want?” one of them calls out.
“I’m looking for Cain,” I shout back. “Does he still live here?”
The guy at the door hesitates for a second. “Who’s askin’?”
“Beck Jacobs.”
He silently assesses me for a long moment before jerking his head in indication for his buddy to go inside, hopefully to get Cain—assuming it is actually Cain in there, and not some high-out-of-his-mind drug dealer that I’m about to piss off.
The two of us stand, facing off in silence for a long moment, until the screen door creaks open. With the light from the hallway behind him, it’s impossible to make out the details of the man standing in the doorway, and I squint through the glare, trying to work out if the tall, broad, muscular man in front of me is the lanky kid I used to know.
“Fuck me. Talk about a blast from the past.”
His voice is a deep rumble, nothing like the hoarse rasp I remember when it was breaking as a pre-teen boy. Regardless, there's a familiar ring to it, and for the first time tonight, a sense of rightness settles in me.
“What’s it been? Ten years?” Despite not being able to see his features all that well in the dark, I can feel his eyes roam over me. “What brings you back to my rundown neck of the woods?”
“I heard about some thugs going by the name of Reaper Rejects. Had to come see if I needed to beat up some shithead kids.”
He barks out a cold laugh, making it impossible for me to figure out if this is all friendly banter, or if my being here has pissed him off.
“Guess you better come in then.”
Nerves coat my palm as I push open the squeaking metal gate and walk up the short walkway of cracked and broken flagstones, climbing the rickety steps that protest under my weight to the front porch.
In the dark, with the interior light behind him, it’s still impossible, even this close, to get a read on him. Not that he gives me much time to analyze him anyway, turning on his heel as my boot hits the porch, and pulling the screen door open so he can step inside.
I follow him into the once familiar house. Growing up, the four of us spent a lot of time here. Eating in Mama B’s kitchen and hanging out in the living room. While the interior looks exactly the same, right down to the markings etched into the living room door frame, marking each of our heights, it’s completely different. A haze of smoke floats in the air, and following the noise coming from the room on my right, I find a bunch of thugs lounging on sofas, their feet up on the worn coffee table, with beers and cigarettes in their hands as they watch me closely.
Cain gives them a brief nod as we pass, which they all return, still keeping their wary gazes on the intruder and potential threat—me.
“Where’s Mama B?” I question as we move past the living room.
“Dead,” he gruffs out sharply, and I can’t tell if it’s from emotion, or a silent warning to drop the topic. I swallow my questions and ignore the pang of sadness at hearing of her passing, following him down the hall to the kitchen.