He wanted to blow the slate away.
So he had hired me. Paid me money he owed to my dad, because while Michael may be a narcissistic sociopath, he could still see one clear thing about my father. The one clear thing even I always knew.
Only one of us was getting out alive.
My father or Michael.
My father or me.
Because with my father, it would never be over. He’d latch on and keep paying it out, feeding Michael drugs, running him credit on races or fights—whatever it would take to keep the golden boy in his debt.
Small-time, but not stupid.
And Michael knew it.
This whole elaborate setup, from hiring me to going on this insane strip-club robbery, all of it had been about one thing.
Getting Michael in the right place.
In exactly the right position to be able to do it.
To kill my father and get away with it.
Hell, he’d even tried to take a shortcut, by getting me to do it with him earlier. And I’d turned him down and forced him to continue building this scene.
He’d bought my friendship, but it was really about setting up his alibi. It would go like he’d said it would that day in the school parking lot. That we were friends, that my father beat the hell out of me. And Michael had to kill my dad—to save me.
He’d had Cyndra show up at my house before the party, knowing it would cause a fight with my dad when he saw her car. Then everyone else had seen my face at the party afterward. And the next morning, dropping me off at school, Michael had paid to see my back. He’d played me like a violin. I’d gone off, in a self-destructive haze, and had provoked the confrontation when I’d gotten home.
Which had led to even better, undeniable proof. Absences and worse bruises.
Mr. Stewart was worried about me. A friend had told him they were worried about me, too.
Michael.
All of it set up the believable backstory. Framed the justifiable homicide—in defense of another.
Even tonight, the club and the bouncer and Dwight. It could all be explained away by saying my father had made us do it, while holding Janie captive. It showed how dangerous he was. And we didn’t know what else to do.
Now all Michael had to do was cause my death. Get my dad to go for it.
Would Michael stop it in time? Save my life at the last minute? Or did I have to die now, too? And Janie with me.
What about Cyndra?
She huddled on the sofa, tear-streaked face taut with fear.
Something ripped in my chest. The space between my lungs tore and constricted.
My father stepped closer, hand up, knuckle ridge bowing out as he showed me his fist. “Where’s the second bag?” he asked. “I know you didn’t leave it.”
“He’s the one with money, not me.” I pointed at Michael.
Why didn’t I say it? Say It’s a setup or He’s got a gun. He’s just waiting for the right moment to kill you.
Can’t you smell the trap?
I know what’s going to happen. It feels like a poorly rehearsed play that the high school admin makes the whole school attend so they can justify having drama class.
And I have to play my part. Have to say the right lines. Only the right move will get Janie out alive, and Cyndra with her.
I was wrong before. This is what it feels like to be trapped.
My stomach roiled beneath my trip-hammering heart.
Michael stood up, jabbing a finger at me. His eyes glimmered, an imitation of my dad’s psycho look.
Maybe it wasn’t an imitation. He’d arranged it all. Even shooting Beast at the club tonight. Everything to get to this precise moment.
“Wasn’t I your friend, Jason? Where’s the shit?” Michael asked.
“You’re full of it,” I said.
My father growled and seized my shoulders, yanking me up and shoving me against the wall. He shifted one hand to my throat, the other hand pointed to the backpack.
“That all you got? Is that”—he pressed into my throat, cutting off the air—“all you got?”
I brought up a knee. He blocked it, but the shift of attention loosened the hand on my throat. I jabbed stiff fingers at his eyes and tore his thumb off my neck, twisting away.
He cursed, rubbing his eyes and blinking.
The back door was behind me.
Janie was on the sofa.
“Janie—”
A hand came down on her shoulder, tattoo of a squid wrapped around his wrist and hand, tentacles fat, green, and glistening.
I stood, shaking, my body screaming at me to get out, to get away, to run and never come back this time.
Looked at Michael. He shrugged. I couldn’t see any emotion in his eyes other than anticipation. No regret. No reassurance.
No way out.
I was bait on his hook. That was the use he had for me.
The only thing I’d done right was keep Clay out of it.
My stomach churned, an engine blade whipping sludge. The sour tang of acid rose in my mouth.
Cyndra didn’t meet my eyes. Tears coursed down her face. She hugged herself like if she didn’t, she’d come apart.
My shoulders slumped. This was it, then. Whatever Michael wanted it to be. Because if I said anything, it wouldn’t matter. My father would still come for me, wouldn’t believe anything I said, wouldn’t stop now.
My father cursed, then laughed. It raised the hairs on my arms.
“Run, little boy. Why don’t you run?”
I glanced at Michael. Wondered if there was anything I could say that would change what was about to happen.
Michael’s eyes were reptile flat.
The only thing I could change was how I’d feel when it was over. If I lived.
I threw myself across the room at the man with the tattooed hand. Punched him in the gut, brought my knee up in his groin. Grabbed the back of his head and slammed his face on my piston knee.
He fell, groaning. I grabbed Janie, pushed her at the front door. “Run!”
The tattooed hand grabbed my ankle, yanked hard enough to make me stumble. I kicked out.