Another month ticked by. My relationship with Jaime became alarmingly intimate. He moved most of his stuff to my place and slept-over ninety percent of the time. I couldn’t tell him no after he’d confided in me about his mom and Coach Rowland. I didn’t know many people who’d be eager to sleep on the same bed their mom used to cheat on her husband. But while we were enjoying more sex, more phone calls, more pizza nights, and more talks about our uncertain future, more, more, more—it was becoming evident that we were starting to raise people’s eyebrows.
Vicious caught us red-handed, making out while hidden behind Jaime’s SUV at Liberty Park after a midnight walk. (We only went out together when everyone else was fast asleep). Vicious didn’t look surprised. Just offered us his usual scowl, growling about how we grossed him out and moved on, probably looking for a victim to murder that night. He kept his mouth shut.
But other people didn’t. At school, girls were getting restless. Jaime wouldn’t give them the time of day, and while he made up something about a girlfriend who lived in LA, nobody believed him. This HotHole in a steady relationship? A long distance one, too? Pfft. Yeah, right.
One day, a cheerleader named Kadence went as far as following Jaime back to my apartment and reported back to the masses that he’d rented his own place. I was just glad that she didn’t know the place was mine and that school was going to be over in few weeks.
But it was all too good to be true. The last week of school, I found that out.
It started with the innocent sound of a text message pinging in the dark, followed by an announcement.
“I’m going out,” Jaime said.
It was half past midnight, and we were both snuggled up in bed. His mom thought he had moved in with Vicious, and Spencer confirmed the lie. Shockingly, his father and stepmother did, too. This kid did rule everything around him, his parents included.
“Where to?” I breathed more of him into me, still clutching his waist. He got up, sat on the bed, and fired off a text message, avoiding eye contact.
“Don’t.” His voice was rough. Clipped.
I scooted up in bed, frowning. “Jaime, what’s up?”
He groaned, pulling on a white tee over his bare chest. No matter how many times I’ve seen him naked, it always made me feel a little sad when he covered those great abs. “Nothing’s up. Last time I checked, it’s not against the law to go hang out with your friends.”
He had yet to look at me.
“Yeah.” I grabbed his arm, prompting him to look at me. “But it is against the law to do half the shit Vicious makes you guys do. So it is my business.”
“Actually”—he shook out of my touch, turning around and smiling tightly—“that’s exactly why you aren’t going to get shit from me. It’d only drag you into a pile of crap I’m not willing to pull you into. I’ll be back later.” He kissed my temple. “If you need anything, text.”
“You’ve been Defied,” I said dryly.
He ignored me, squatting down and tying his shoelaces.
“Vicious wants you to do something for him, huh?”
“Don’t worry.”
Like hell. “I’m nothing but worried,” I gritted.
Petrified would be a better word to describe my feelings in that moment. Vicious always came up with stupid shit, and the HotHoles always played his dangerous games.
Watching him walk away stirred something in me I thought didn’t exist anymore. Anger. Rage. Curiosity. I was tired of being led. Into relationships. Into situations. Tired of accepting everything that was handed to me—my broken dream, broken leg, half-assed career and the job I hated.
I sat in bed, alert. I heard the silent engine of the Range Rover purring outside, and that was my cue.
I slipped into my dented Ford and followed his vehicle all the way to the beach.
THERE WAS NO WAY I would be able to hide my car in the deserted parking area overlooking the marina, so I parked at a gas station on Main Street, near the water, and bolted straight into a convenience store. Its windows faced where Jaime had parked his Range Rover. A bell chimed above my head as I entered the deserted store, and faint Indian music greeted me from a staticky radio. A beautiful girl with long black hair smiled from behind the cash register, her gaze returning to her book. Hiding inside the convenience store allowed me to watch him without being caught. Considering Jaime was no stranger to stalking, I tried to downplay my actions, internally justifying myself.
My boyfriend left in the middle of the night without any explanation. I deserve answers.
I watched Jaime’s large body through the glass door, jogging across the parking lot, as he approached Trent and Dean on the edge of the piers at the marina. They slapped each other’s backs, talking animatedly before Jaime broke the circle. Then they strode up the wooden piers where all the famous yachts of Todos Santos were docked.
The penny dropped and with it, my heart. It wasn’t a Defy fight. It was retaliation. It was cooking up revenge and making bad people pay.
Rowland.
The Rowlands had a restaurant on a big-ass boat, one of the most luxurious in SoCal, docked along one of the piers. It was their pride, joy, and main source of income. Hence, it was the sweet spot the HotHoles probably wanted to crush and eliminate from the earth.
Storming out of the convenience store, I ran toward the marina fast enough to leave a trail of smoke behind.
I wasn’t completely opposed to Jaime staying in Todos Santos. The selfish (AKA the biggest) part of my personality wanted him to stick around. I loved him and wanted to make gorgeous babies with him. (I wasn’t crazy enough to utter this aloud. Then again, he was my stalker, so Crazy was a language we were both fluent in.) But it was a whole different ball game—letting him do something insane that could permanently screw up his life. Even Baron Spencer and his peeps weren’t above the law when it came to serious crimes.
And Vicious took his revenge very. Fucking. Seriously.
I ran across the skaters’ ramp overlooking the marina and crept up the pier between two giant yachts. One of them belonged to the Spencers—Marie, after Vicious’s late mother—and the other belonged to a Saudi tycoon who had a summerhouse in Todos Santos but never actually bothered to drop by. It allowed me a good angle on the boys, who, just as I suspected, stopped in front of La Belle, the Rowlands’ boat and exclusive restaurant.
Trent fisted a five-gallon gasoline can while Dean spoke on the phone, his voice inaudible to me. Jaime produced his cell and looked to be typing up a text. A few moments later, my cell vibrated in my pocket. Luckily, I’d silenced it before I got here.
Jaime:
Crashing @ Vic’s 2nite. Don’t wait up.
Fury flowed through my veins, sizzling and consuming. I knew why they were doing it. Jaime hated Coach Rowland for fucking his mom. Trent hated Coach Rowland for laughing when he broke his ankle during football season and his son for breaking it a second time. Vicious…he just hated everyone in general. And Dean? Dean looked like he loved everything and everyone in life, the player with the big, genuine smile, but I saw him. Saw below the perfect, shiny exterior. And what I saw wasn’t pretty. Not by a long shot.
Regardless to how each of them viewed the retaliation, the HotHoles were like brothers. The re-injury to Trent’s ankle—like my fall in the subway—was the final kiss of death to his football career. Someone had to pay for greasing the locker room floor.