before, I didn't cut the money off because we can use it to track her. She's
been withdrawing a lot from this account, though." She points to something
on the screen and I move my eyes up and down, crossing over the numbers
that seem to grow the further up I go.
"Fuck..." I can't help but say. That's a lot of fucking money. Where the
hell had that money been when I was a kid? She didn't need to fuck with
Roger to get drugs. Hell, she could've bought more than enough to keep
herself stocked and even OD more times than I care to count.
"Yeah," Rylie agrees absently.
"As far as I know, though, she doesn't have a debit card—at least she
didn't when she left the rehab facility she was in," I tell her.
"Well, she doesn't really need it," Rylie says and then goes on to explain
about identification and social security numbers and bank processes and it's a
lot that I don't really understand. All I know by the end of it is that she's got
access and that's all that matters.
"This came in a few minutes ago, but it's from yesterday," Rylie says,
clicking a button that pulls up a small black box. She hits the button again
and then a video starts playing. From the grainy black and white image, I can
tell it's security footage of a bank lobby. We watch for several long moments
as people move in and out and then a familiar figure appears.
My mouth nearly drops. I've never seen my mother so well put together.
Her longer, slightly shaggy blonde hair is pulled up into a ponytail. She's got
wire-rimmed glasses on as well as a baggy sweater that covers her entire
upper half. She's never looked so inconspicuous, so fucking normal. The
glasses, though, have to be some sort of disguise because as far as I can
remember, she never wore them. It might have worked too, I might not have
even noticed the woman in the video if Rylie wasn't staring straight at her.
"How the hell did you know that was her?" I ask, shocked.
"She looks like her pictures," Rylie explains. "Her older ones, that is. I
haven't found any images of her recently; I assume she's changed?" She
glances back at me.
"You could say that," I mutter. "I hardly fucking recognize her all
covered up looking like a normal fucking person."
"This isn't the first video I've gotten," Rylie says, stopping the video as
my mother approaches one of the tellers, a black purse clutched close to her
chest. "Each of them I've managed to correlate with a withdrawal on her
part."
The doorknob behind us jiggles and then a hard knock sounds. "Avalon?"
Dean's voice comes through the wood.
"Hold on," I tell Rylie. "I'm going to let him in and you can tell us both."
As soon as I've got the door open, Dean comes in and pushes it closed
behind him. "Are you two almost finished?" he asks.
I grab his arm and yank him behind me until we're both standing behind
Rylie's chair. "Keep going," I tell her.
She nods. "I was just telling Avalon about her mom going to the bank
several days in a row. I've been tracking the money she's been pulling out, but
I think I've finally figured it out."
Dean's eyes sharpen on the screen, where the video is frozen over my
mother's face as she turns her head to the side—scanning as if she expects
someone to be following her. Little does she know we are. Only we're not
there in person.
"She’s been withdrawing the same amount every day for the last ten days
or so," Rylie says, clicking a few buttons until a series of bank statements pop
up. "Nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-nine dollars."
"Why that amount?" I ask.
It's Dean who answers, though. "Because after ten thousand, it gets
reported," he tells me. "Also, not all banks will have that much on hand,
especially not smaller banks in rural areas."
"She could be using it to get ready to go on the run," Rylie says.
Dean's quiet. Something sizzles along my spine and I turn only to realize
he's staring at me. "It’s a lot of money for someone like her," he says. “She
could be doing it for another reason.”
I frown. "What are you thinking?"
His jaw tightens as if he doesn't want to say it, but with a sigh, he looks
from me back to the screen again. "She could be trying to hire someone to
take you out after the failed attempt last time. She could be trying to hire a
hitman.”
"A hitman?" Rylie's voice sounds stunned.
I should be shocked, too, but somehow, deep down, I'm not. Not really.
Am I irritated? Fuck yes. Without a goddamn doubt. But I'm not even
surprised anymore by anything that Patricia Manning does. What I don't
understand, still, though, is why? Why the fuck does she seem to hate me so
much? And why is she trying to kill me now? What's changed?
I turn back to the computer screen and Rylie, contemplating. "If that's
true," I start, voicing my thoughts aloud. "Then we need to figure out why
and how we're going to use that to our advantage."
"Wait," Rylie says. "Are you serious? You really think she's trying to hire
someone to kill you?"
I turn to Rylie, dropping my hands away from her chair. "Stay here," I tell
her. "You don't want to get involved with this part."
"Wait, no." She shakes her head. "Avalon, even if she's a shit person—
she's your mom. She wouldn't—"
"She's not a mother in any true sense of the word," I inform her with a
low voice. It's so damn quiet that it's almost a whisper. It makes her shut up
though. She just sits there and gapes at me. "When I was still living with her,
she invited men over and told them to use me," I tell her. "I always fought
back and it never happened—not then—but Patricia Manning is no one's
mother. Least of all mine. She's a problem and if you want any more
plausible deniability, then you're not going to ask me any more questions,
Rylie. If you're my friend, you're going to keep your mouth shut and let us
walk out that door. Thank you for the information, but this is as far as you
go."
I don't wait for a reply; I turn towards Dean and he nods, backing up
towards the door with me not far behind. I reach it, latching onto the edge as
he steps into the hallway, but just as I'm about to pull it shut behind me, a
small, pale hand so much more fragile than my own latches on to the
doorknob and yanks it back open. Rylie steps out into the hallway and throws
her arms around me.
I freeze, not sure how to respond. "Hug me back, dumbass," she mutters.
A snort escapes my nose, but I do as she demands and I close my arms
around her body. Shit, she's even smaller than she looks. Like a bony doll, all
slender limbs and sharp angles. "Call me if you guys get into trouble," she
whispers. "I don't give a shit about plausible deniability. Call. I'll get you out
and no one will know."
"Got it," I whisper back, squeezing harder than I really mean to.
When she releases me, she pushes me towards Dean and then steps back
into the dorm room. "Later," she mutters, shutting it in my face. Cheeky
bitch.
I pivot back to face Dean who looks even more shocked than me. "Wha
t
the fuck was that about?" he asks, frowning towards the door.
"Girlfriends," I tell him. "Got a problem with that?"
He shakes his head at me. "Just as long as you know she's not fucking
moving in with us," he tells me, holding his hand out. I take it without a
second thought.
"I'll think about it," I reply.
"The answer is no."
I laugh. "Sure it is," I agree readily enough, making his shoulders relax
before I tack on for good measure a sweet, "for now."
17
DEAN
PATRICIA MANNING IS LIVING ON BORROWED TIME. SHE JUST DOESN'T KNOW
it yet. My girl is all packed and ready to move out, but as I watch her with the
others, strapping a knife to the inside of her boot as Braxton hands her
another, I start to wonder if maybe I'm leading her too far into the dark.
I'm used to it here and she thrives in it, but shouldn't I want better for her?
Shouldn't I want to lead her into a place where she can flourish and find
normalcy?
"I don't know what you're thinking man, but from the look on your face, I
feel like it's dumb shit." Abel's voice draws me out of my thoughts and makes
me scowl. I turn and shove a hand into his face, pushing him away from me.
He curses and swings at me, punching my arm as I pass him on my way
to the table we've pushed up against the side of the hotel room Troy's been
using as his base of operations in Spearwood for the last few days. It's
directly across from the motel Avalon's mother is in right now, with a clear
line of sight to her door.
I grab a shoulder holster and slide my arms through the straps, pulling it
so that it sits in place comfortably before I start picking through the arms
we've got spread out on the table. Abel doesn't take me walking away,
though, as evidence that I don't want to fucking talk and the asshole just
approaches once more.
"You want to tell me what has that nasty, pinched look on your face?" he
prompts.
"No." Clear. Succinct. No fucking way he doesn't understand my
meaning. Except he's a fucking persistent bastard who knows I wouldn't kill
him—at least not right away.
"Really?" he wheedles. "'Cause I think you do."
"I don't," I inform him again, picking up a gun and pulling out the clip.
Thankfully, Troy does a good job in gear loading and it's all ready to go.
"Dean." Abel props himself against the table and looks across the room. I
know who he's looking at. Avalon. She's dressed to kill—and I mean that
quite literally. Black clothes don't show blood and that's all she's wearing.
Black jeans. Black tank top. Black holster. Probably shouldn't have given her
a fucking gun knowing how angry she gets and how quickly I can piss her
off, but there's no fucking way she's going with us tonight without a weapon,
and a puny little knife or two isn't going to cut it. "She'll be fine."
"I know she will," I state, double checking the safety on my gun before I
put it into one side of the holster before reaching for a second and doing the
same.
"Then what are you worried about?" he asks.
"I'm not worried about anything," I lie.
Abel arches a brow at me. "Don't be a bastard," he says. "If you don't
want her to go—"
I set my hands down on the table, curling my fingers around the edge.
"It's not that," I say, cutting him off.
"Then what is it?"
"I just..." My head lowers and I close my eyes.
"You just what?" he presses. God, Abel doesn't fucking stop.
"Can't I just fucking think for a second without you crawling up my ass?"
I growl.
"No, you can't," he snaps back. "Because anytime you get like this, you
start thinking shit that you have no business thinking. We're about to go
across the street, kidnap the woman who paid some fucker to torture your
girlfriend, and then we're probably going to stand back and watch as she gets
some revenge. If you've got a problem with any of that, maybe you need to
stay behind."
I lift my head and turn it to glare at him. "Do you really think I'd stop her
from getting her revenge?" I demand.
"Then what's your fucking problem?" he bites back.
"My problem is that I think she'd be happier if none of us were like this,"
I hiss, keeping my voice down even as my rage bubbles over. I cast a glance
back to make sure that Avalon is still preoccupied with whatever she and
Braxton are talking about. When I know she's got her focus elsewhere, I
return my gaze to Abel. "We're fucked up," I tell him.
He snorts and shrugs. "Yeah? So? That's nothing new." He leverages up
and turns to face the table, eyeing the contents that are still strewn over its
surface. Abel keeps his gaze down as he lifts a Glock and checks the clip.
"What are you really worried about?" he demands. "That she's going to wake
up one day and want to be someone's soccer mom? That's not Avalon."
"It could be, though," I say. "Someday."
Abel puts the gun down with a sharp movement, bending over the table as
his shoulders shake. I know what he's doing, and I punch him in the arm for
it. When his head comes back up, it's clear from how red his face is that I was
right. He wipes the tears of mirth from under his eyes and lets out a breath.
"Fuck man, look at her." We both turn around and I do. I look at her and I see
how fucking sexy she is without even trying. Her long, dark hair pulled back
into a tight ponytail at the back of her head. Her nape makes me want to
bite down into her flesh. I can see the traces of the lines I'd drawn in her skin
a few nights ago. My name is etched down her spine. I wanna rip the tank top
she's wearing up and bare it for all to see, but this really isn't the time.
"Look at her," Abel repeats. "And tell me she doesn't look like she's right
where she fucking belongs."
I do look at her. All I ever do is look at her. I watch her when she's
awake. I watch her when she sleeps. Avalon has become the center of my
world.
"Remember what Braxton called her when she first took us on?" Abel
prompts. "A savage. That's what she is, but more than that, she's just like us.
She's a survivor, Dean. It's who she is; don't get all fucking angsty on us now
thinking that she could be something different. She isn't and she can't be. At
the end of the day, we can only be who we truly are."
I blow out a breath, and with it goes my fucking dumbass thoughts.
"Yeah," I say. "You're right."
He slaps my back. "Shit yeah, I am," he replies. "I always am."
I roll my eyes. "I don't know about always, but this time, you are," I
concede.
Abel sobers. "Just remember to appreciate that savage in her, Dean," he
says. "Because without it, she never would've made it to us. She would've
been broken and dead a long ass time ago."
There's no response worthy of that statement. Nothing that could fit in
this moment, so I just simply stare down at him and give him a firm nod.
Abel goes back to what he was doing before he decided to get on my case,
and t
ogether, the four of us suit up and prepare for the night ahead.
An hour or so later, there's a brief knock on the door followed by a key
turning in the lock. The door creaks open and Troy steps inside, letting it shut
at his back. He lifts his head and meets my eyes. "We're ready to go, Boss,"
he says.
"She took the bait?" I clarify.
He nods.
"Good."
"So, what's the official plan?" Abel asks.
"Simple," Avalon states as she tightens the straps on her own shoulder
holster. "We meet her at the warehouse Troy set up and then we kill her." She
shoots him a look. "Did you get what I asked for?"
A smirk raises the corner of my mouth. Only a few hours of knowing him
and she's already barking orders like she's in charge, but then again, she is.
This is her operation. Her vengeance. And I'll do anything to make sure she
can see it through if that's what she really needs.
Troy nods. "It's all set up at the warehouse." He hesitates and glances at
me. "Before we head out, though, I was wondering if I could speak to you for
a moment?" He tilts his head towards the door. "Alone," he tacks on.
"Finish getting ready," I tell the others. "We're rolling out soon."
Troy leads me back to the door and outside. We step out onto the second-
floor balcony hallway and my eyes automatically shift across the street.
Patricia Manning's curtains are drawn shut, but I can glimpse a sliver of light
peeking out from the other side. I wonder what the woman must be thinking
—does she regret hiring someone to kill her own daughter? Would it matter
to me if she did?
"What did you want to say?" I ask, turning and leaning against the worn
metal railing.
"I wanted to know if you've completely lost your mind or are you only
feeling a temporary lack of sanity at this point," Troy hisses.
I stiffen. "Watch how the fuck you speak to me, Rodriguez," I snap.
"Explain."
"Do you have any clue what your girl asked me to get for her?" he
demands.
"I'm sure you're going to tell me," I state, though I already know.
"You're damn right I am," he says. "You can be vicious, but I've got a bad
idea on what she's got planned when she gets ahold of that woman tonight."
"Was it difficult to get?" I ask curiously.
"No, it wasn't difficult to get, but is there any reason she needs so much